


The Lighthouse

by ElectraRhodes



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Islands, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Post TWOTL, Recovery, Regret, Renegotiated Relationship, Sleight of Hand, Slow Burn, eventually, it's still beautiful, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: Hannibal has never let any kind of distance get between them, and this is no exception. Even if an old fashioned kidnap isn't any real way to begin a new life together.Season 4.Hannibal and Will’s story after the Fall. Everyone else’s too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iesika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iesika/gifts), [Luce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce/gifts).



The first thing Will sees when he opens his eyes is Jimmy Price. And not to be an aggressive arsehole, or the like, that is so far from what he'd expected that he feels a single pulse of anger shoot through him. All this? And, no offence, but all this, and Jimmy Fucking Price?

Faintly, Will is aware of a thundering, juddering noise and shake. There's something tight too around his face. Oh, an oxygen mask. He tries to look around from his limited prone position. He can't move much. Oh. Fuck. And that's somehow worse, a neck brace. He wonders if he's shackled or if whatever injuries he's sustained someone thinks they're enough to keep him contained. That and the helicopter. He's in the goddam FBI helicopter. He knows he must have made some kind of noise or movement or something because Jimmy glances at him, sees Will’s eyes are open. He maybe smiles just slightly,

“Bad?”

Various bits of the night come back to him. The Red Dragon. The desperate clutching embrace. The fall, push, ending. Except it isn't. He's almost relieved that the mask and brace relieve him of the option of answering. Jimmy nods at him,

“I thought so.”

…………………….

Chiyoh looks at the two men. Will is badly knocked about; stab wounds, glass cuts and grazes, maybe from the window, broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung if the frothy blood he's exhaling is anything to go by, a broken arm and leg from when he'd hit the water, almost as unforgiving as concrete. She looks up again, to the top of the cliff. Maybe too high? When the tide is at this level. Even though they'd avoided the rocks.

Hannibal though? Too much blood lost in the water. And, as well as the shot, the lacerations, also some broken ribs, maybe his arm. Ankle? Definitely a concussion. She can't take both of them. Not like this. That was the deal. Hannibal will just have to try and understand later.

She winces to herself. Much much later. It looks like a through and through but really? A one in ten chance it has hit nothing really vital. Though if it's the spleen or liver? Maybe he can make it. Even the pancreas? Just possibly. But if it's a severed artery? Or it pierced the abdominal cavity? He's already dying. As good as dead. But it was always going to be Hannibal if there was a choice to be made. Will understood that. 

Carefully she rolls Will onto his side, he splutters up some water. She sets the dinghy back to a low throb from idle and heads closer in. Near the shore she slows again and rolls Will carefully over the side of the dinghy and into the surf, letting the tide do some of the work for her and take him in. She sets the drag anchor, enough to hold it whilst she does some arranging. She slips over the side. This has to be quick. The hushing of the sea belies her thudding heart.

In the water she gets a hand round Will’s uninjured shoulder and then under his arms and slowly drags him onto the stony shoreline. She pulls him just out of reach of the tide-line, marked by seaweed, flotsam, jetsam. The sea won't take him again just yet. She puts him on his front, not quite the recovery position, she can't afford to be too obvious, but enough that he won't choke on his own vomit. Hopefully.

She feels for a pulse. It's there. Not thready, just, there. Nothing else to be done, so she wades back out to the dinghy, bobbing against the anchor and dragging in with the tide. She thinks of the Red Dragon’s preferred style, shoot the husband and use a knife on the wife and kids. Make the husband watch him lose what was his. And then come back for him. Well, it hadn't quite run to his plan. But it had been close. And he'd been faster and stronger than they'd credited. It hadn't gone quite enough their way. Though she reckons the recording will be convincing enough. If they want to be convinced.

Hannibal coughs. Back at the boat she’ll have to use the main winch to get the dinghy out of the water with Hannibal in it. He's still too big for her on her own. Once aboard though? She can manage. And there's help, of a kind, waiting. Enough, probably. Not that she trusts Bedelia and Will would have been furious If he'd known. But she's some ground to make up and this might keep Hannibal from killing her just yet awhile. Maybe.

They'll have to stop the bleeding. Maybe set up an IV of fluids. Plasma? The rest though? Easy to make everything worse. She wonders about infection. Does the salt in the sea water help at all? Or is all that offset by the general rubbish in the sea? She doesn't know. 

The main boat is a night trawler, unremarkable in these waters. There’s a good chance no-one will pay them the slightest attention. And it's in good working order. Will had gone over every inch meticulously. Nodded his approval over her choice. She'd been surprised to find that his good opinion actually mattered a little to her.

The winch works and she gets Hannibal under an awning on the deck. She deals with the gunshot wound as best she can. Sets up the IV lines. Hopes. She goes back to the steering room. Simple enough controls; guidance, navigation, stop, go. Will had talked her through it, not insulting her by repeating things. Though they had anticipated that he'd be there. Whether he'd stay or not hadn't been determined. But to get them that far? Yes. Agreed. And here they are. Minus him. Maybe it's better. The next bit requires Bedelia’s help and a few favours she's calling in. Ans Will would hate that.

Chiyoh's glad they took the precautions they did; especially the painkillers and sedatives. Just in case, Hannibal's luck offset against Will’s? Although right now it looks like Will’s is winning.

………………….

The next time Will opens his eyes it's Jack. So he closes them smartish and lets the darkness hold him close once more. Still no shackles he notes as he drifts away from the conversation Jack is having. With a doctor? Maybe? That's either very good, or very, something else he'd rather not think about right now.

…………………..

He's not at all happy. But Chiyoh is relieved that he does at least understand that it's not malevolence or mischief just misfortune that's been their undoing. And it doesn't take much to encourage Hannibal to focus on his own recovery. Not least with Bedelia in the background, and Chiyoh can only describe it as, goading him on. And surprisingly Hannibal responds to it with something approaching humour.

Whatever happens next he has three years of prison food and only callisthenics to come back from. And the ribs, and the ankle sprain, an annoyance rather than anything worse. And the shot. Which didn't hit his liver or kidneys or pass through the abdominal wall or perforate an intestine just graze it. Both Bedelia and the doctor they'd found had almost said ‘lucky’ until they saw her expression and had both rapidly backtracked then. But he is lucky. And fortunately, he seems to realise it. It's not the worst. All in all.

Hannibal's face gets especially still round the edges when they revisit the choices she made. Maybe Will really couldn't save himself, but he didn't intend for Hannibal to be caught again. He'd closed his eyes when Bedelia had explained. A number of things coalescing in his mind in retrospect that he isn't especially keen on. Though he's grateful she doesn't labour it. Of course there was a plan, there had to be something. Confirmed in every exchange at the BSHCI but hard to extract from any tale or recording. Hannibal thinks of the myriad ways in which Will is currently paying for a plan that almost came together, but only almost.

………………..

When Will hears Alana and Jack he doesn't open his eyes at all. There are no circumstances under which that will ever be a good combination again. He’s not entirely sure it ever was. Instead he concentrates on the noises of the various things he is hooked up to; the steady bleat of various monitors tracking his life and not quite death.

The room is warm but not overheated and is that sickly pale green that hospitals still seem to be fond of. He's in a private room, so he's assuming that somehow he's still on the FBI’s dime and they're picking up the tab. Maybe he's still in sufficiently bad shape that it's hard to tell which side of the line he finally came down on. What he can recall of the scene can't be too helpful in determining any particular narrative. Still, he did make a choice. Two, really. He'd told Bedelia he didn't mean for Hannibal to be caught again and maybe he meant by Verger money, or by her, or by Jack with the whole weight of the FBI behind him. And he had got as far as the house and over the edge as he'd told Chiyoh he would.

He'd looked as though he was keeping promises all around; to himself, Molly, Jack, Chiyoh, maybe even Hannibal. Even Alana. In a way. And maybe he still couldn't save himself? It wasn't looking too great either way. And thanks, but no thanks, maybe he'd just sleep through a bit more of Alana and Jack. Too many things hurt anyway. Too many things hurt still. However many days it is. Or weeks.

………………………

Jimmy comes around a couple of times. Will catches him on a quick peek, just sitting there beside the bed. Reading a magazine. On a brief scan he looks tired and frayed round the edges. Will feels a surge of surprised gratitude. He knows Jimmy wouldn't approve but he's grateful for even this small show of solidarity. Unless. Unless he's a plant, by Jack, to lull him into a false sense of security and make him more likely to open up, or less likely to clam up. One of those. Both.

Brian doesn't come. But Will doesn't expect that. For a day or two he thinks about the way that Frederick had turned up last time. He won't be appearing this time. Will does his own bit of shrivelling inside his skin. He'd like to pretend he cares. But he doesn't. He’d like to pretend he doesn't care, but he does. It's his eternal conundrum. Thinking of Frederick puts him in mind of Freddie, but there's been neither sight nor sound of her. Probably a good thing. He feels like shit. He wonders how Hannibal feels. If he's even survived. Because he gets it. Chiyoh had a decision to make and she made it. She'd been honest about it. So you can't blame her for that. Just.

When he's run out of excuses and time he starts to open his eyes when people come into the room. Eventually he opens his eyes and it's Jack. More surprisingly it's Molly as well. And hell and damnation, that's bad.

……………………..

Hannibal watches as Chiyoh offers the four men further instructions on what to put where on the boat. There is friendly grumbling and a degree of humour. It's a tradition apparently. In the bar of the hotel the night before he'd been faintly amused by the gentle ribbing he'd received. Wardens apparently being the but of humour and just faint scorn. Twelve months on an isolated spit of land cut off most of the time by the tide? A colony of sea birds to keep an eye on, A rodent problem to contain, a crappy but important archaeological dig in the summer, a killer of a winter, and a stroppy light to maintain or at least to know when to call in with a problem. 

The last keeper and warden had managed eight months. The ones before have managed six. The island owners had been amazed and delighted and almost grabby to get his application. Solid, dependable, 50s, recovering from a bad accident, likely to be joined by currently hospitalised friend, partner, those details were vague enough, also recovering from the accident that nearly killed them both.

He read up on the life of the gulls, the problems of rats and hedgehogs and rabbits to shore and cliff nesting birds, concerns about tresspass and so on. The interview wasn't difficult. All it had taken via Skype was quiet conviction and a willingness to start within four months. By that point Hannibal was sure he'd be able to lift more than just his own arm. It was something to aim for. And by then Will would have been released from hospital, and well enough to make his way there, to finally join him.

And here it is. Finally. Six long and tedious months in all. But he's feeling better than he has for several years. Arrivals day. Or departures. Depending on your perspective. And once everything is in it will Be Chiyoh’s final task to contact Will.

Coverage of how he has been fairing has been minimal in the press. Even the usually reliable Freddie Lounds has been reticent. There's not been much beyond the fact that he survived and was hospitalised. And is apparently still in hospital. Even after six months. Hannibal snarls minutely, something must have gone wrong in his care. Some incompetent surgeon or clinician. Frustrating. But Hannibal has readily shown just how patient he is in respect of Will Graham and he is again.

…………………..

It's clear, right from the kicker, that they've got miles to travel before they are even close to having a decent conversation. Molly is avoiding questions Will has answers to but which he knows she doesn't want to hear. He has no answers for the questions she does want to ask. They settle for one or two hard questions a visit. And the questions and answers don't get less painful, but he does try for honesty. And so does she.

It's about the fourth or fifth visit that Will realises she's blaming herself for pushing him to go back and for poking the tiger in the glass cage with a sharp stick. Her fault, her fault. And hell, if there isn't just a tiny bit of truth in that and Will can't help but agree with her. Damn. But they could fill a whole life time of books beginning ‘what if’ or ‘if only’ and none of them would be worth reading or the paper they're written on.

He's surprised though at the reassertion of warm fondness between them. Maybe honesty does work after all? Partially though? It's a survivors’ thing. They both survived, they both survived, and damn it Molly wants that to mean something. And he's reluctant to take that away from her too. So, he wonders, if maybe he could too. Make it mean something? After all, strictly speaking, he kept to his side of the bargain? Time did reverse. Didn't it? Hasn't it? Couldn't it?

It's all a bit moot when he half wakes one day delirious with a secondary infection and he spends the next six weeks once again fighting himself to stay alive. The visitors are a mush of faces and voices; Jack for sure, Molly, Freddie? Abigail? Chiyoh? But no Hannibal. So Will knows he's not dead yet. He thinks Hannibal must be. But it's confusing. And he can't decide if that's a relief or another deep wound open and weeping.

He feels so ill and all his focus is on the pain, the hurt, the misery. Really, they could ask him anything and he'd confess to everything. Any kind of bargain offered now. 

………………….

 

“He has a secondary infection. The doctor did say it was touch and go. But, he's improving. The doctors says that the previous” she pauses, debating her words, “injuries and even the encephalitis, his general condition, weakened by the stab wounds, the blood loss... We have to wait and see..”

She trails off. Hannibal regards her. He'd wondered if it was something of the sort. He takes off his gloves and drops them on the scarred wood surface of the salt scrubbed table. He moves to the stove and lights the gas under the tea kettle. Shaking it to check the slosh of water inside.

“Very well. We shall give him three more weeks for his recovery to stabilise and then I want you to bring him.”

She's a little startled by this, 

“Before he's left the hospital?”

“Yes”

“You know his wife has visited. Frequently. Is that….?”

“Not entirely. Though it is a factor. The possibility of Will believing this is a kind of punishment has not escaped me”

Chiyoh keeps as still as she can. Will’s capacity to blame himself is a rough and conflicting mix of egotism and a profound lack of self-worth as far as she can tell. And strangely compelling for Hannibal in the extremes of his nurturing personas. 

“I understand. Kidnapping him will not be straightforward. And you cannot come.”

He nods,

“I realise. But it will almost certainly be easier to take him from the hospital before he is up and walking around of his own volition. Jack will almost certainly be watching him then. Just in case. If we take him before then? I cannot believe security has not relaxed somewhat. Six months in and no news of me. Jack must hope I'm dead.”

Chiyoh nods again, she can see the wisdom of this and when she'd visited she'd got right to Will’s bedside with just the aid of a clipboard, scrubs, a half on and half off face mask, and a stolen ID card. He's not well protected. And certainly not from hospital staff.

“Alright. Three weeks. I will prepare. And Bedelia?”

“Will be leaving when you do. Probably. Thank you Chiyoh”

He nods to her, and then returns to the kettle now beginning its mournful whistle. He glances back at her,

“Tea?”

………………………

Will opens his eyes again. Really that's the most exercise he's had in months. Flexing his eyelids. God he feels so ill still. But he's coming out of it. So his doctors say. And the longer he's ill the friendlier people have got. Even Jack. Perhaps that's some complicated thoughts around penance, or the memory of Bella in hospital, or even of Will lying in hospital last time. Brought low by Hannibal's hand. Both of them. Almost to death. Or even Jack's thoughts about his own role in every bad thing that's happened to Will over the last five years.

Will isn't sure if he said anything whilst he was out of it, but no one is behaving towards him as though he killed one serial murderer in order to free another so just maybe it's going to work out. And they'll both be free? Just maybe? And even, possibly? Free from each other? He closes his eyes again. Another nurse in the room fiddling with his IV. At least most of them don't expect much in the way of scintillating wit or even very articulate conversation. That's something. He lets himself drift. Maybe these are new pain killers. Because these are stunningly good, the kind he would have killed for during the encephalitis hellwalk with the ravenstag dogging his every footstep.

The next few days are a series of postcards and snap shots. A vehicle? Is this an ambulance, did he get worse again? Are they moving him? Did anyone tell Molly? The nurse looks like Chiyoh. That's not right though. Jack would recognise her. He should remind her. More meds. And actual clothes. These are actual clothes. Shoes. These are shoes. When did shoes get so heavy? The sky. The grey open sky. So full of clouds. And birds. A lot of birds. Screaming. Then muffled. Something moving. God the nausea. Way worse than before. Way worse. Carried. 

That rings some bell deep in Will’s drugged to the gills unconscious and he struggles against it. Not that. Not that. He can't go back. Wolf Trap? No. None of that was good. He doesn't want it. Time didn't reverse, not like that? God. The drugs tip him deeper into sleep and there's some peace in that.

Lying down on a bed one floor up in the Lighthouse Hannibal and Chiyoh look at Will steadily breathing against the meds keeping him under and out of pain.

“Is he worse or better than you feared?”

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand across Will’s forehead, scowling at the scar there and across his cheek. He's too warm. They may have moved him a little too precipitously.

“Both.”

She lowers her head. Her scan of Will’s notes back in the hospital had suggested it might be too soon. But here and now, two weeks later? The careful journey taking longer than ideal. But he's probably not that much worse than he was then. Probably. And at least Hannibal knows what he's doing.

“And what will you do now?”

He shrugs, it's what he's always done with Will,

“Watch. And Wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So, he said nothing at all to you?”

The nurse looks tearful and the person who'd been staffing the reception at what Jack supposes is the relevant time clearly thinks his cards are already being processed as they speak. Jack tries to dial it back, just a little. He looks between the two hospital workers. The lawyers had rolled right over when he'd put them all on the spot.

It had been Jimmy goddam Price who'd realised. Of all people. Jack hadn't even known he'd been in to see Will. Turned out he'd been showing up regularly. And what's emerging is a mess. No one. Fucking no one knows where Will has gone or with whom.

Molly Graham won't return Jack's calls. So there's not way of telling if she sprang Will and they've made the decision to run for it, not trusting to the FBI any more. Or it could be the Verger-Blooms, Alana had cautiously offered it as an option, to actually, finally help Will disappear, just in case Hannibal is still alive after all, vengeful and full of terrible promise. And of course he can't reach her or Margot either, though Jack's throwing everything the FBI can at their lawyers.

Then there's the US marshals and WitPro and no-one's willing to say yay or nay to him about that despite that he's federal law enforcement too. ‘Need-to-know’ he'd been told, and damn it all doesn't he have that need nailed down tight? Not enough apparently. No-one needs to know. And again he's no way of knowing if Will is in witness protection on his own, or with Molly and Walter.

Of course, the other possibility is that it is Hannibal Lecter, still alive somewhere. Jack's thought of it. But it would seem like such a colossally stupid thing to do except for the fact that there is no trace of Will at all. So, not so stupid after all. Jack doesn't like the other option that's given him major pause. It could, just possibly be the Japanese woman. The woman he'd encountered in Florence. Maybe in retaliation or some kind of revenge. He knows about the train and the shot to the shoulder. And if Hannibal is dead either from injuries sustained in that fall from the cliff or some other thing? Damn it all to hell, that would be bad. If it's her Will is in a whole world of trouble.

He curses the lax security of the hospital and his own distraction. The fall out from the escape one whole cluster-fuck of extreme management and its accompanying paperwork.

Jack frowns to himself. The only positive versions of how this is playing out is that Molly and Will have run for it. Or, Will’s made a choice; to go with the Verger’s agents; with WitPro; or even the woman. Voluntarily. But then? Why take him now? While he's still ill? Unless to confuse the pursuit? Or he hadn't really been that ill the second time? Was that manufactured? Damn. It's another thing they'll have to pursue with the hospital.

It had even taken Jimmy a couple of weeks to realise that Will was actually gone. The first time Jim was distracted by a note on the door ‘medical examination’ or the like. The second time a nurse had caught him before the door and told him Will was just being washed and Jim had the good sense to know how much Will would hate that in front of a colleague albeit a friendly one. Even if he was pretty well unconscious.

The third time though? Jimmy had worried. He'd talked his way into the room and there was consternation when it was found to be empty. Some rapid checking found Will had been moved to a public ward, just temporarily. Something to do with some wiring problem. Jimmy had even seen him there, asleep, quiet, ill. He'd been hugely relieved. Didn't wake him of course. And that had happened a couple of times. Will asleep. Still recovering from the infection.

Then he'd got moved into another private room. Except now it was obvious he hadn't been. The guy in there? Passing resemblance to Will. Will’s name on the door. But not his notes at the end of the bed. And why the hell would Jimmy check them. It had only been a quick visit. Or two.

It's taken more than a week to peel it all apart. Jack sighs, the staff are useless. And it looks like that wherever Will has gone, he's been gone for maybe up to a month. And that's so fucking crazy that Jack just can't bear it. For fuck’s sake! Where the hell is he?

…………………..

Will blinks slowly. The light bounces around the room strangely. He's not 100% sure it isn't the meds but it all feels wrong, sort of rounded rather than square. And the windows are small and high. At least they're glass and not barred but it feels strange. Is it just a different hospital? Maybe a private one? 

He manages to focus a little, the chair and table and comfy armchair aren't like any hospital he's been in. Unless it's some kind of psych ward? It's not so different from Abigail's Port Haven room. Yeah. Quite like it in fact. Shit. So. Did he finally lose it? Has the encephalitis come back? He flails a little in the bed. Good. Not restrained. Oh. Still an IV drip, so he's definitely getting meds. For something.

And fuck. Still so tired. He closes his eyes again, wondering if he can sleep against the brightness of the light. But his body is demanding and the gradual tug pulls him under as inexorably as the tides and the moon.

………………

Molly stands at the desk in the hospital. She's finally sufficiently pissed and concerned that she's come, despite Wills text warning her to stay away. Now though? Fuck? They're close mouthed and clearly concerned about litigation. And even though she's down in Will’s paperwork as his goddam wife, there's reluctance to come clean with her only explained by some moderately senior administrator from the hospital as a matter of security for the patient. 

She makes enough of a fuss that eventually someone admits that he's not there anymore.

“What does that mean? Where is he?”

The administrator shuffles and eventually grinds out,

“I'm afraid I can't tell you. What if you're one of the people he needs protection from?”

She's about to argue but it taps into just enough residual guilt for her to back off. The administrator and one of the reception staff eye her warily. She gets out her cell and debates calling that bastard Jack Crawford. Maybe not though. Like he's ever been any actual use.

No one in the hospital tells Jack about her visit, his various threats about patient confidentiality and security having finally hit home. 

Everything else though? There's so much to follow up, even without Jack knowing that whatever it is that has happened it's not the most positive version of events that has played out.

…………………..

Bedelia Du Maurier takes a long steadying drink of water. Working with focus and intent to stay as clear headed as she can. Chiyoh has told her that's she's got instructions to take her back as soon as Will is up and out of his sedated recovery. Bedelia knows better than to push for an earlier departure. If Will dies, and of course, there's still a faint chance of that, she considers that her life is probably forfeit. She looks down at him lying in the bed. His paleness offset by his dark hair. Grey threading through it, catching silver in the light. 

He stirs occasionally and Bedelia wonders just how he'll feel about this particular outworking of events. She resists the faint inclination she has to urge him into wakefulness. Overall, it would probably be better if he doesn't know she's been here. He'd been angry the last time she saw him. Oscillating between recklessness and that smug righteousness he effects that she despises. 

She shrugs to herself. She's has her own approach with Hannibal and has enough experience of at least co-existing with him. And she still holds his interest, in certain respects. Will though is simply vicious where she is concerned. Still, that's fairly mutual.

Bedelia wonders if Hannibal has considered the likelihood that Will will once again have been swayed by whoever was last whispering in his ear? Jack Crawford? His wife? Even Alana Verger-Bloom? They're all possibilities. And if Will wakes and is less than thrilled to be here? What then? Will has always struck her as endlessly malleable and open to even fairly crude manipulation. But then, so is Hannibal, though it took her a number of years to get him into place. Now though, she recognises captor bonding in the dynamics of the relationship. Though she is still not sure which of them is the captor. That's never been entirely clear, perhaps to either of them. He might be dangerous but she is not likely to shy away from that, not now, not when she has so much to gain. Or lose. Again.

Will huffs again in his sleep. A small note of distress. And it doesn't endear him to her in any way at all.

……………………

 

Brian, Jimmy, and Sean, Bev’s replacement in the lab go through the hospital CCTV yet again. On the first few passes it looks like a nurse simply fixes his IV and Will settles further into sleep. And then nothing. It's quite sometime later that two orderlies come in and wheel Will out, bed and all.

They can track his progress to another part of the hospital. Wheeled along corridors, no hurry to it. Eventually he's pushed into a public ward, and there he stays. They go through the footage again. Still the same. So. Not a switch on the way, not some tampering with the images. In the ward there are the usual rounds of doctors, nurses, techs and aides and orderlies. Meals and meds. And Will sleeps through it all. 

He even get visitors. Including Jimmy. People who sit by his bed. Who read to him. Who seem to talk to him. They see the same woman a few times, sometimes alone, sometimes with a man. It's not Molly or any of the other women they know of in connection to Will. And no one knows the man at all. Brian sighs, really they know nothing about Will outside the lab. They hadn't back then, and they don't now. For all they know this is family. Strange though about Molly. She'd been regular. But now? Not sight nor sound. Unless she's been staying away while Will recovers from the effects of the infection? Maybe? It's a shame that Jack can't reach her. He should try harder Brian thinks. They should get that line of enquiry closed down. On the CCTV they see the screens get put round Will, probably to give a semblance of privacy while he's washed or examined.

From the timestamps they can see that about two weeks in he’s moved again. It's different orderlies this time. And yeah they've checked all four. Long time employed in the hospital, no unexplained jumps in income or expenditure, no fancy new anything, no inexplicably missing family members, nothing to indicate coercion or threat or bribery.

They watched the footage multiple times. Every minute is caught on camera. Except for, the 70 seconds in a lift which would be impossible for any kind of switch to be affected and apparently the camera in the lift hasn't worked for years. So not that. Though it bothers all three of them. Damn. 

The next time Jack comes in they take him through the key points. Could it work? 70 seconds? They get some trainees in and practice and practice and practice. They can't get it below 130 seconds either in their own mock up at Quantico, or actually on site at the hospital. They give it up and re-watch the last section. Will in another private room. Again they see Jimmy visit, and again. And on the third visit they see him panic because its not Will. It's NOT Will.

This last section shows the same woman visiting and the same man. At the nurses station the sign in sheet is indecipherable.

…………………….

Hannibal checks the dosage levels of the sedative. It's been almost 2 weeks and he is content with Will’s progress. He would rather that Will was completely recovered from the infection before they bring him round, if, for whatever reason he decides on a particularly difficult course of action. The thought of which perhaps surprisingly rather thrills Hannibal. Will’s unpredictability is still a source of interest, and some measured fondness. Even despite, or perhaps because of, the various outcomes they've experienced as a consequence of his capriciousness in the past. Life, and death, with Will, is never mundane or boring. And so much is.

But if he's brought round and he's not recovered, Will’s version of difficult might result in some very problematic interactions or an attempt at a premature departure. Hannibal knows they haven't discussed the unwitting drug and light therapy he administered to Will in the past and there is some question of how Will might feel about this as yet unknown medicalisation and therapeutic regime. But if he had been in the hospital it wouldn't be so different and Hannibal is reasonably confident that Will will understand the reasons even if he doesn't entirely like them. Another week then, To let Will regain himself.

……………….

Jack Crawford is almost at the end of his tether when Molly Graham calls. Overall he can't decide whether it's worse or better to finally hear from her. She is nearly incandescent when she understands that Will has simply gone and it's not the Feds that have moved him. But she does at least agree to come in.

Of course when she does arrive a new story gradually unfolds. They check her phone. The text message she received did come from Will’s cell but that phone is now in the FBI evidence room, it was left in the hospital with ‘not-Will’. The text was sent just before Will was moved the first time, if all the time stamps line up. But there's no sign of him using the phone, at all. They track backwards and forwards through the CCTV footage. Nothing. His fever means he doesn't touch the phone for several weeks. And the content? That convinced Molly to stay away?

>we should leave. Can you get things ready? In a few weeks? When I'm through this? Stay away until then. Don't tell anyone. Ok?<

She looks at Jack,

“We talked about it. WitPro or just leaving. Florida. Mexico. Washington State, Alaska even. Canada. Anywhere else."

The lab team sigh collectively, Brian sums it up for them,

“It worked. The one person who'd actually know he'd gone. Staying away. To keep him safe.”

She looks at him,

“Did he choose to do this? Who is he with?"

Jack knows this will go badly,

"We don't know. I had hoped he was with you. Either just you two and Wally, or it was WitPro. The US Marshals have clammed right up.”

Molly blinks, how the fuck can the federal government withhold this? From her? Unless Will agreed. And that gives her pause. But really? Is that where they'd got to? Unless someone got to him?

“What are the options?”

Brian looks at Jack who nods briefly,

“Alright. There are a variety of possibilities that we can nail down, come and look at the board."

On the lab's two boards they've a complicated time line covering the last two and a bit months ever since Will’s secondary infection began. She frowns at it. The text message fits in some time in the third week of Will’s infection, they show her the footage, she doesn't know the visitors either. So there is nothing there. They go through the whole of the footage three times. By the end they're amped on tiredness, too much caffeine, and adrenaline. 

When they take a break Molly asks about the 70 seconds in the lift. Jack frowns, Will married no fool. She survived the Red Dragon after all, managed her own recovery as Will began his. Haven't they both been through hell? And survived. So far?

“We tried it. It can't be done. Not in the time. And we'd see the switch if someone was in the lift waiting for them. Not on the cctv, the lift camera hasn't worked for a while. But we'd see someone waiting for the lift who looks just a little like him. Something. And then come out later? But there's nothing. And before you ask. We checked the lift hatch.”

She nods. 

“And it's not an elaborate distraction?”

Brian holds up a hand,

“What?”

She looks between them.

“You know. When illusionists do something complex and you spend all that time watching the trick and try and see how it was done, and really that's all elaborate preparation and planning and fancy visuals. Usually it's simple. So simple you miss it. Something unfussy. Just..”

Brian interrupts,

“Everyone's taken up with the show?”  


She nods again,

“Sure. 70 seconds? Could be possible, must be possible, mustn't it? So of course we all want it to be. Get a handle on it. And you spent how long checking? Wasting time? A week? Two? More?”

Jack nods slowly, it had been close to two weeks, maybe a bit more. Plus the checks on all the visitors, the staff, the workmen everyone who came within a breath of that lift, that ward, that room, that floor. And the route. Jimmy tips his head back to the footage on the screen, frozen at the point when he realises it’s not Will.

“When then?”

She looks at him,

“When did Will get ill? Ok, then...”

She points back at the timeline. 

“He could have gone any time from then onwards, couldn't he?”

Jack stands closer to the board, points at the first week with an angry finger,

“I saw him then, just after he got ill again. I signed off on the paperwork. It was definitely him. The doctor said he'd be sedated so…”

He trails off. They look again at the board. Slowly Jimmy says,

“Shit, so really, he could have gone any time after then, which means..”

Molly looks at them aghast,

“What! Eight weeks ago? Nine? Fuck!”

Brian whistles.

“That's some very elaborate planning. But it doesn't necessarily narrow it down to when, or how, or even who. And I'm sorry to say, whether Will knew, and was complicit, or not.”

They all nod. Damn. Molly looks back at the screen again. Still showing a horrified Jimmy.

“I want to see the early footage again. From before he was ill. Those first two weeks.”


	3. Chapter 3

The light is so bright that Will can't see anything properly. At least it's not flashing, it's just white. The equivalent of blinding noise. Last time, Will swallows, last time it was like this the light had opened up to reveal Frederick Chilton. It wouldn't be doing that this time. It is a good test of his nausea and tolerance, thoughts about Frederick. But there is a figure beside him; though it's hard to see who.

“Hello Will. You look tired. Older too, if you don't mind me saying? How are you?”

Will closes his eyes. Maybe he's dead. Finally. Maybe. If he is then it didn't hurt as much as he'd expected.

“You're not dead Will. Though maybe you wanted to be?”

Will slits his eyes at Abigail.

“I don't know what I want.”

She looks a little sad he thinks.

“Still?”

He shrugs a little and a hot lance of pain pierces his shoulder. 

“Sorry.”

She sighs.

“Don't be. He always said your biggest battle was with yourself. I think we all know that now.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why are any of us? Why do the dead visit the living? What's in it for us? Do you think?”

“I don't know that either. I'm tired. And older.”

“Any wiser?”

Will makes a feeble gesture with his hand before it falls back to the bed.

“I don't know. Look around. I don't even know where I am?”

She smiles at him,

“Really? Are you sure? Where do you always end up?”

“I want to be with Molly.”

“Is that really true? She let you go Will. Encouraged you. Maybe she didn't really like what she saw. Underneath it all.”

“That's not your voice Abigail.”

She shrugs then,

“You kicked me out. It's not surprising if I spent some time in someone else's Mind-Palace is it? Doesn't your inner voice sound like him again Will? Doesn't it? Don't you want it to?”

Will glares at her,

“I told you. I don't know what I want.”

She makes a small sound, maybe a scoff,

“Yes you do. You always did.”

He turns his face away from her. Stares at the wall, definitely curving. Maybe that is the drugs. God. He closes his eyes. Doesn't want to see. And hasn't that been the issue for so, so long? He doesn't want to see. Even if he wants to be seen.

………………………..

“Go back again.”

“We've watched this I don't know how many times?”

Molly glares at Brian who is no match for her, he sighs and re-programmes the drive, they start to watch the cctv from virtually the moment Will starts to get worse.

“There.”

She says it with conviction. Jimmy and Brian look at each other as Jack peers harder at the screen.

“That's before I signed the paperwork off. I saw him after that.”

“No you didn't. You only think you did.”

The three men look at Molly. And then back at the screen. All they see is three people help Will into a chair and who then go into the adjoining bathroom. They're back a few minutes later and Will is still well enough just to be able to help himself back into bed.

“There, there!”

Molly points at the screen,

“Can you get a close up?”

She points hard again and Brian finally gets it,

“Ok, this is the best we've got. What? I don't see it?”

“That's right. You don't see it. His wedding ring. He's not wearing his wedding ring. Scroll back and he's wearing it. Now he's not.”

Brian goes back through the digital images. They look at each other.

“But how did he manage? He was ill?”

“He's the one pushing the chair. I'm almost positive. Watch again.”

They watch again. Maybe? Oh. 

“The other guy has a hand under his elbow. Shit. Why didn't we see it?”

“Because it's hard to see. And you believed your own eyes. If you look carefully? He's got some kind of thing on his face? To cover the scar I guess. If you're not looking?”

Jack sighs,

“I know we'd like to believe it. But, I saw him.”

She looks at him and frowns.

“What did you see? Curly hair? A bandaged face? Or a dressing? Or a scar you didn't want to look at too closely? Not nice was it? Or someone you used to call a friend? That you'd brought to this?”

“I didn't throw him off the cliff.”

She stares at him,

“Yes you did. You really did. Straight off it. He had nowhere else to go. What was he supposed to do. He knew if he came back at all he'd be different. Is that what you imagined? Broken? Half dead? Half killed? There was nowhere else for him to go. And who knows if he succeeded.”

Jimmy looks at her and then at Jack,

“I think he thinks he failed. In the chopper? I think he knew then.”

She wheels on him,

“You think Hannibal's alive? You think that's what failure meant? That he didn't kill him?”

“No. I think failure meant he wasn't with him.”

She tries not to tear up, but it's hard,

“God. You people! What is this? You all got some hard on for Hannibal Fucking Lecter? And the games he plays.”

Dully Jack says,

“We caught the red dragon.”

“Yeah” she sneers, “at what cost? Again?”

……………………….

Bedelia watches Hannibal's face. Will isn't making the progress he'd like and is still mostly submerged in a drugged haze. It's an experience she can get behind. Nevertheless she wouldn't be who she is if she didn't ask,

“Is he manufacturing some of his disablement?”

“I'd prefer to think not. It's been a shock to his system.”

“Some might argue repeated shocks to his system.”

“They might.”

She pauses and takes a sip of water, Hannibal stands and gets up to look out of the window. The small building is adjacent to the lighthouse proper. It's where Bedelia has a room. Chiyoh just next door. Hannibal is on the second floor of the lighthouse, Will the one above. When Chiyoh and Bedelia have gone he’ll close up this building, just use it for stores, or for when the wardens from the mainland come, or the archaeologists, or any stranded tourists or shipwrecked fisher-men. That's the deal. 

She watches him carefully, and can't help but be reminded of the therapeutic interactions they used to engage in in Baltimore. Hannibal looking out of the window at whatever he could see. She asks him,

“And you?”

He doesn't look back at her.

“Will is recovering. When he comes back to himself? Then we shall see.”

She moves her head a little, from side to side, there will be a way through this minefield, she just has to navigate it carefully, really she could use a Charon, but Chiyoh has disappointed her in this respect at least.

“He thinks you are in love with him. He was surprised. Shocked perhaps. It rendered him speechless for a while. And then aggressive.”

Hannibal frowns, he looks mildly affronted, something as trivial as love? Bedelia holds up a hand,

“Nothing chocolate box I assure you. And that wasn't quite what I meant. He didn't think anyone could love him. He already knew what you were capable of. What you believed. It's why it hurt him so much. The betrayal.” She pauses and then adds, “both times.”

“And why he forgave me.”

Hannibal still doesn’t turn around. He makes it a statement, but Bedelia replies as though he'd posed it as a question,

“Hard not to forgive the people who love us. Especially if we think we are not worthy of that love, of any love.”

“He's always been worthy of love.”

Bedelia eyes him,

“Worthy of obsession, certainly. But that's more about the obsessor than the object of the obsession.”

Hannibal nods briefly,

“I accept that. But he knows now. That it's for both of us.”

She nods her head vaguely. What Will Graham can or can't believe or accept would be moot except that her life is probably dependent on it.

“You think he does accept it? What if he thinks you abandoned him again?”

“I didn't abandon him. I've never abandoned him.”

She scoffs gently,

“He may feel different. He had ‘expectations’ this time. Don't you think? It's been six months. More. Gradually being welcomed back into the bosom of the FBI, his family.”

“They're not his family. He knows that. I reminded him of it.”

She takes another sip of water,

“And tried to make sure he didn't have an alternative. Also again.”

He turns and eyes her coldly. Though the point is a legitimate one. 

“Aren't you tired of this Bedelia? Or simply hoping for more material for your next lecture?”

It's the first time he's directly referred to her life after this sojourn.

“I haven't made plans as concrete as that. Yet. Should I be?”

“Quid pro quo Bedelia. You saved my life. You might have saved your own.”

She looks at him without blinking. She only might have.

………………………

Will opens his eyes again, the periods when he can stay asleep seem to be getting shorter, he still feels nauseous but he can also move a little. He's had odd dreams. When that thought floats into his conscious brain he snorts to himself. Odd dreams? That's almost a definition of him. Here is a man who has odd dreams. These ones though, someone helping him round the room. Someone encouraging him, someone making him lift his arms and legs and god it all hurts. Physical therapy. That's what it is.

He's tried to focus on the helper but he's not sure if they have a face. He giggles a little. A faceless helper. Someone in his dreams. Helping. Fuck. The lights are bright, the nausea, the helplessness. He feels sick again. The last time he had that? Hannibal had stuffed first a tube and then Abigail's ear down his throat. He leans over the side of the bed and retches onto the floor. He hangs there, half on and half off the bed.

A wash of shame and misery and fear swamps him. It's like those first terrible months. When he thought someone genuinely cared about him, for him. But not enough. Not enough for self-interest not to win out. Although? Although Hannibal had then worked hard to get Will out of the BSHCI? Hadn't he? All that trouble not to get caught? And then all that trouble that ended up with him caught. Something in that? Is there? Isn't there?

Wills head throbs and he pushes himself back onto the bed. He wishes there was some water or some ice chips. It's hard to follow any train of thought. Several are competing for attention. He sobs once or twice. His throat sore and scratchy. There must be water. Somewhere. Maybe if he could just clear his head?

Shakily, he pulls out the IV from the back of his hand. Slowly he pushes himself up to sitting. He closes his eyes when the room swims warningly around him. He manages to get a hand on the chair beside the bed and half pulls himself, pushes himself towards it. His legs he swings round onto the floor. He's trembling so badly he's not sure he can get up, but he must try. He looks up at one of the windows. Letting in all that light. Is it a window? Is it really? Maybe it's just a light? Maybe it's all an illusion or a dream.

He half stands, folded over the chair, desperate now to see, somehow he half drags the chair a few steps, drags himself. His head is below the level of the window. He can't see out of it. But it is a window. He puts a hand out to feel the rough texture of the wall. Cement maybe. Painted white. And it is curved. It's not him. He looks back at the room. It's a fucking round room. What the? 

As he almost stands there he leans harder against the wall that isn't straight, it's cold. Over to his right is a chunk taken out of the circle of the room, and there's a door. He considers it, for about ten seconds. But he knows he can't get there. He looks back at the bed. It's maybe four steps away. Normal steps anyway. But that seems impossibly far. And who switched off the lights? It's getting darker? That's not right?

He slides away, down the wall, and his eyes close before he's slumped on the floor, in some state of consciousness that isn't alert or totally inert either. Abigail strokes his head,

“What did you do that for? Why didn't you just ask? If you wanted to know? Always have to do things the hard way don't you? Always think you're on your own. You're not you know? Maybe never again? Will? Do you understand? Will?”

Chiyoh looks up at Hannibal from where she's bent over Will, they'd heard the thump from the room below.

“He was trying to reach the window.”

“To see out? Or get out?”

“I should think to see. He must be curious about where he is. Shall I help?”

“Can you manage the bed clothes. He's been sick as well. Perhaps..”

Hannibal pauses, so far he's managed most of Will’s more intimate nursing and care. And that's been a simple matter of expediency whilst Will has been drugged, ill, and unconscious of assistance or support. He might feel different about it once he's come round. Now that he is coming round.

“Yes. Some assistance please. Clean clothes and bedding, and can you warm some water.”

Chiyoh strips the bed and uses the pillow case to make a cursory wipe at the vomit beside it. It's mostly liquid. Hardly surprising given Will’s almost total dependency on IV nutrition. Just the thinnest of soup and water comprising his diet to date. She goes downstairs and returns with clean sheets and pillows.

Between them they carry Will back to the bed, Hannibal mindful of his own healed but vulnerable injuries. He nods to her,

“If you bring the water I can manage from here.”

Whilst she fetches a basin and kettle from the solid fuel stove Hannibal settles the upright chair beside the bed and sits on it, looking down at Will. Although his distress has always been fascinating Hannibal remembers the bruised and bloodied smile Will had offered in the Uffizzi gallery. Certainly what followed had not been tender or kind. But in that moment? Hannibal knew he wouldn't forget it, he'd said so at the time. And to have Will smile again like that? Maybe with blood stained teeth?

…………………….

It had taken three days for Jack Crawford to believe he'd been mistaken. Molly had been furious about it. Brian Zeller had eventually sighed and remarked that three days for Jack to admit he was wrong was something of a record and really he was surprised he'd come round so fast.

The clincher had been when Molly had asked where the cctv was outside the room. They hadn't looked. They'd concentrated on the footage inside with Will in clear line of sight, until he'd been moved. Sean had sighed and called up the hospital.

Later that afternoon the four of them had sucked on bad coffee, all of them tetchy as they watched the cctv footage taken in the corridor adjacent to Will’s room. Molly not saying anything about their incompetency but she certainly radiates it through every pore.

They watch. And even the time stamp is right. Three people go in with an empty chair. Three people come out. And one of them is helped into the chair almost as soon as the door is shut. 

“They knew we wouldn't look. They knew it. Damn it all to hell. How the fuck did I miss it?”

Molly watches Jacks face,

“It was clever. I'll give you that. And hard to spot. Given everything that's happened none of you wanted to look. Not really. Mr Price, I'm grateful you spotted it at all. How long would it be otherwise?”

Jack swallows,

“The doctors say the lookalike is almost recovered. They thinks he's had some light plastic surgery. Maybe a couple of Botox injections. The facial scar is real. He doesn't have one on his stomach. No one thought to check. It wasn't currently an issue.”

“What does that mean?”

Jack sighs,

“Overall? Whoever’s got him knows what they're doing.”

“So it could be Lecter? Or the Japanese woman? Or even the Verger-Blooms. Because really? This looks like money?”

Jack nods and sighs,

“It does. It could be any of them. With or without Will’s compliance.”

He holds up his own hand to forestall her,

“I know you don't want to hear that. But he almost got you killed. Or maybe thinks he did. Maybe he thinks this is worth it, if you're safe?”

She nods. That could be true. They both felt great gouts of grief and guilt, spilling over them, drowning them. About each other, about themselves. What they had or hadn't said. What they had or hadn't done.

“What if he's not compliant. What then?”

“Were still trying to get in touch with Alana and Margot. They're still hiding. Which we can't really blame them for.”

“Lecter said he'd kill her. Will told me. It was a promise. Will’s life for her’s. Will couldn't decide if Hannibal thought he should be grateful. He thought that was why Hannibal gave himself up, to always be close. To deliver on that promise.”

“Is that all he thought about it? Hannibal was never especially forthcoming after that initial thing. When he surrendered.”

She shrugs,

“Will thought a lot of different things about it. Sometimes he thought Lecter was punishing him. Sometimes that he'd abandoned him again. Sometimes that he wasn't willing to fight for him. Sometimes he just didn't know, couldn't get it. Sometimes he thought it was Lecter having another sulk, like when he killed the girl because he was annoyed with Will.”

Jack snorts,

“He was more than annoyed.”

She shrugs at him, fair enough,

“Yes. Alright. Betrayed by Will. So, you know, tit for tat. Even Steven. Will betrayed him, and so it goes on. Will wondered if it was penance. The surrender, after he'd tried to kill Will. Again.”

“In Florence? Maybe. I'm not sure he'd have done it.”

“You think? Will isn't sure. Wasn't sure. He had nightmares about it. Regularly. Would Hannibal kill him and eat him just to keep him with him?”

Jimmy interjects,

“And that was why he surrendered, so he'd aways know Will would have to think about him, know where he was, so he couldn't escape it? Him?”

Molly looks at him,

“You were there at the trial. What do you think?”

Jimmy glances at Brian and then at Sean. The trial had been bad. For all of them.

“Will did a good job on the stand.”

She stares at him,

“I know he did. It nearly killed him. He was honest. And Lecter had to have seen that.”

“That Will was still conflicted? Vulnerable? To him?”

Molly looks at him, where do they find these people,

“Did you think we didn't talk about it? Of course we did. We shielded Wally from it. Of course we had to, we talked though. God. He's manipulated the whole thing.”

Jack sits up straighter,

“What do you mean?”

“The three years. The goddam trial. Will sitting there sweating through it. Did you not see how scared he was. Fuck you. He was terrified. He knew! He knew what Lecter was capable of. I thought you did too. The Red Dragon? I expect if you go back through Lecter’s patient notes you'll find him there somewhere.”

Slowly Jack says,

“The notes are gone. Lecter burnt them, Will helped him. Before. You think it was a set up? He pushed Dolarhyde? From the start, from before?”

Molly looks at him pityingly,

“And you don't? Christ. Hannibal Lecter is about fifteen moves ahead of you. All of us. Fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are reminders in this chapter of just how much a shit Mason Verger was. TW for bastard brother.

Alana stares at Molly Graham. She's heard of her of course, even seen her through the glass door of a hospital recovery room but they've never spoken or come face to face. She wonders if Will told her about that kiss, or the sex with Margot, or the child that was lost. She's never talked about it to Will. What it was like to find out the baby had almost come to term, that the surrogate that cradled Margot’s child had also cradled his? And what did Hannibal think about that? What did it mean to him? Perhaps it was at the forefront of his mind. His scar in Will, on Will, not Mason’s. His.

It hasn't escaped her notice that Will’s scar must be a mirror of Margot’s. When Mason took that child, barely more than an embryo, a zygote, just a clump of cells really, he took it from both of them and both Margot and Will carry the trauma as a flesh memory. It's a kind of double whammy for Will. Mason killed his child, but so did Hannibal. Alana shakes herself, did Will tell Molly Graham this horror show? Abigail? She must know some of it, she was there for at least some of Hannibal's trial.

She glances at Jack. God. This is just one more fuck up. Margot sighs,

“Jack, so, what do you want us to say? That we spirited Will away? That we made good on some half assed sense of I don't know? Responsibility? Guilt? Fear? And got him out? Ok. Say we did, why would we tell you?”

“You wouldn't. But I hope you'd tell his wife.”

Margot smiles faintly at Molly Graham, kind of surprising in person. Nicer than she'd expected. Although mighty angry.

“Unless Will wanted you left in the dark. I suppose we might.”

Alana shifts in her chair,

“It's moot. We didn't. I know we talked about it Jack. But we didn't. And no, I'm not dissembling. There's no point. And if it's not us? Well?”

Jack Crawford sighs. There's another avenue closed down.

“We don't know. We just don't. He's been gone more than four months now. WitPro still won't say. But they often won't until six months in, to make sure the new cover is secure. I have to wait on that. If he's not with you. And I believe you.”

He glances sideways at Molly,

“I can't think why they'd lie.”

She looks back at him,

“Can't you? I can. To protect themselves. If Lecter is still alive Will would make a solid bargaining chip wouldn't he? Didn't Lecter already exchange Will’s life for your’s Dr Bloom? That's one of the few gold stock options in this fucking mess. Lecter thinks Will’s worth something. Maybe you do too.”

Alana is about to reply when Margot interjects,

“It's a good point. And you're right. He would be. And I can't tell you how sorry I am that I didn't think of that earlier. Because I didn't. To be honest? Up until now? I thought that card was already played.”

Her wife adds,

“Overplayed. If anything.”

“Why? Because Will sent him away? Told him he didn't want to see him, think about him even? Or do you mean the whole fall off the cliff thing?”

Margot shrugs,

“Either really. Does it matter which?”

Molly looks between the two other women,

“I don't think you get it. Lecter might have been in that cell but he manoeuvred everyone. Including me. I know that. What happens? Will rejects him. He almost but doesn't kill Will but does kill his family. The girl? Dr Bloom and Agent Crawford? Who were as close as family in Will’s tiny little world. And then? Fucks off out. Will recovers. Jack chases him. Will chases Lecter. Lecter almost kills him. Again. Then the whole fuck up with your brother. Will rejects Lecter. Lecter gives himself up. Jack chases Will, Will chases Lecter? Lecter almost but doesn't quite kill Will’s family. Again. If the pattern holds Lecter wanted him dead. Put him in the way of the Dragon. Maybe still does.”

Margot looks at her,

“I don't think you get it either. Not all of it. You see your relationship with Will from the inside. Of course you do. But when Hannibal surrendered he knew he'd see Will all the way through the trial. It's only once it was over that all these dominos started to fall.”

Molly nods,

“I already told Agent Crawford I think Lecter knew about the Dragon from before. He was a patient or something.”

Margot pauses, ah, yes, maybe, she nods at her,

“Alright then. You're ahead of us. I hadn't thought of that specifically.”

She smiles and Molly feels a mix of gratitude that someone can see it so fast and also irritation that yet again someone from Will’s past is underestimating her, underestimating them. She looks at Alana. Will had had a lot to say about her. A whole lot.

……………………..

“Eat some more Will. You need it.”

Will tries to make an effort. For Abigail's sake. He can hardly keep his eyes open. But he doesn't hurt so much. And the nausea is receding. Almost like? Almost like? Almost like he might be just about getting a bit better. Maybe. And Abigail still comes to visit. So does Molly. Though she's not so friendly here. He'd tried to tell her he still loved her and she'd mocked him,

“What you feel for your wife isn't love. It's gratitude. And that's a poor substitute for passion. You may have hidden it well but she knows. It's buried deeply and it’s possible she won't find out for a while. But she will. There's a kind of pulsing inevitability to your inability to love where it is found and seek it where it won't be. It will wind itself around her. Keep her cold at night. When she doesn’t reach for you, because she knows.”

He hadn't understood why she was so cool. She wouldn't take his hand when he reached for her. He'd cried then and she'd simply got up and left. He still didn't understand. Especially as she kept coming back. Kept coming back. Was looking after him. Wasn't she? Didn't that mean she cared somehow? It must. It had to. Molly was his saviour, is his saviour. The light in the dark places. Shovelled up hard against the night time terrors. She'd hold him in the dark places keeping the things with too many teeth too many eyes too many tearing biting frantic claws, keeping them back. The scream forever perched under his chin but not released, kept, soothed, petted until submissive and submerged. But always there. Always ready to launch itself howling and mewling into the space between worlds. That liminal space he seemed to stand in. Neither one thing nor the other. Neither one thing. Standing there alone. In the dark.

Hannibal had promised that he'd be beside him. He'd promised he wasn't alone. But where is he now. Dead probably. Or wouldn't he come? Wouldn't he?

“Abigail.”

Chiyoh wipes his forehead again. For all that he's mostly out of physical danger Chiyoh knows that Will is spending too much time backed into a corner of his own mind. A corner that seems safest, so he can see everything coming at him, even if right now he doesn't recognise it.

“Eat Will. You're hungry.”

He makes a more concerted effort. And gradually between them he empties the bowl of soup.

“Hannibal made me soup like this. When he was my friend. When he cared.”

Chiyoh looks at him with something as close to compassion as she gets, 

“He has not left you Will. He is still fighting for you.”

Will makes a small sound,

“Fighting for me? He only fights with me. He likes fighting me.”

She considers a moment,

“It is only lies and deceit that lead to violence between you. They have always been the rootstock that you have grafted pain and misery to. It is not only you. Hannibal too has lied, more by omission than commission, but lies all the same. It is where the violence stems from.”

Will looks at her, though she's not sure who he sees.

“He doesn't mean to lie to me. It's in what he doesn't say or do more than what he says or does it's true. But there's violence in the things he says and does as well.”

“Violence or truth?”

Will closes his eyes,

“Both. Neither. Both. Usually. He is violent in ways that make you seek the truth, make you face it.”

“And he's trying to make you face yourself?”

Will sighs,

“It's a terrible thing. I'm a terrible thing. I wouldn't look for me. I'm tired Abigail. Can I go back to sleep.”

Chiyoh doesn't reply. She checks the IV line. Frowns at it. There's more fluid than there should be. An awful thought crosses her mind. Maybe Will isn't as confused as he seems. Or rather he is, but maybe he shouldn't be. If what she thinks is true? There will be other kinds of truth dealt.

………………..

Margot looks at Alana and reaches across the back seat of the town car and clasps her hand.

“Does this mean Hannibal is alive?”

Alana looks out of the window, watches the glazed scenery. Did summer happen this year? She doesn't remember. She shrugs and then looks back at Margot.

“Well, I don’t think Molly Graham is playing a double game. She's not hidden him somewhere. Or if she has she's way better than I could even have begun to imagine! Actually I like that version of events. Let's believe just for a moment that that's possible.”

She takes several deep breaths,

“Actually I wish that that's what I'd suggested. Either to her or Will, probably her. She'd have been more receptive I think.”

“You think she wants him back still?”

“I think she wants whatever version of Will Graham that she had back again.”

“He sounded sweet. Was sweet. Sort of.”

Alana looks at her,

“It was a masquerade.”

“Yes. I know. Does she?”

“Will’s always good at reflecting. Hannibal once told him that the mirrors in his mind could reflect the best in him as well as the worst in others. I told him it could reflect the best in others too. If he let it. If he wanted that.”

“Maybe that's what he did with Molly then.”

Alana doesn't reply. Margot strokes her palm with her thumb.

“If it's not Molly. And it's not the Feds. And not Witness Protection. And it's not us. It's not, is it?”

Alana doesn't say anything just looks at Margot for a minute. Neither of them say anything.

“Ok. So not us. In which case it's as Jack said. It's either the Japanese woman or Hannibal is alive.”

Alana looks back out the window, they're approaching the private airfield they used earlier in the day and where the small private Verger company jet is waiting for them.

“Hannibal has an uncle. In Japan I think. Maybe.”

“First I've heard of it.”

Alana shrugs.

“I know it's not very likely. But we should find out. Don't you think?”

“And if it's not? Not the uncle. And not some kind of revenge because Hannibal's dead?”

Alana lets out a long long breath,

“Then he's alive. And it's either revenge on Will or because he just missed him that much.”

………………………

Hannibal unclips the IV and replaces it with one he's prepared himself. He looks down at Will. Asleep again after a disturbed afternoon. He reaches a hand and lays it gently across Will’s forehead. The casual intimacy is something he's missed. That and the companionship. Will is warm but not too hot. A good sign. He regards Chiyoh leaning against one of the walls.

“Where have you put the camera?”

She nods to the wooden chest of drawers pushed up against a wall. It's not especially ornate but the tiny camera located in one of the empty key holes to the main drawers give a good view of the room and is invisible to a causal viewer.

He inclines his head. He can't really blame Bedelia for trying. She was always resentful of Will’s presence in his life. More so of his influence. He shakes his head a little. He is used to Will’s remarkable capacity to sabotage his own relationships, even without a little nudge. But he should have paid closer attention to Bedelia’s endeavours to push one or both of them. He'd been irritated by some of the assumptions she had made and passed on to Will in the guise of therapy. But then, he'd been vulnerable to that with her too.

“You will review the footage regularly?”

Chiyoh nods. To her mind this is a simple case of betrayal. She's exasperated with Bedelia. If she had only… but it's not in her nature either. She considers really that only Hannibal understands the wide variety of options before them all. He is a seeker after truth and elegance. That is his design. She smiles slightly. It's an interesting idea. Bedelia though? Seeks carnage. Is attracted to it like a moth to a lamp. Even though it might mean her own destruction. Burning.

…………………….

Jimmy Price pushes a cup of coffee across the desk towards his boss and then another towards Molly Graham, he keeps the third for himself. He doesn't know where either Brian or Sean are. The three of them take a few mouthfuls of coffee. It's not great.

“We’re pretty well out of options aren't we?”

Jack shrugs,

“Still could be WitPro.”

Neither Jimmy or Molly say anything,

“Alright. Probably not. Which means the Japanese woman out of revenge. Or someone we don't know for the same reason. Or Hannibal Lecter himself, or the Japanese woman or someone acting on behalf of Hannibal. Either for revenge or not. For something else.”

“Does Lecter have family? Anyone?”

“The Japanese woman. Might be family. Will said something about her once. Hannibal had a Japanese aunt.”

Jimmy pipes up,

“He had a lot of Japanese items in his house. In Baltimore. Pictures, paintings, etchings. These little tiny ornaments? He had a good collection. As well as the samurai armour.”

Molly raises her eyebrows,

“Armour?”

Jimmy makes a face,

“Really? Once we knew, his whole place screamed look at me, I'm slightly deranged. And yes. A complete set of samurai armour. Authentic. Original. The Baltimore museum has it now. That and the shunga and netsuke. Some of his notebooks were in Japanese. I think he spoke it.”

Molly looks from him to Jack,

“So, maybe we should track down the aunt? I'd guess if she was Japanese then she married into the family?”

Jack shrugs,

“Ok. I've actually got Brian on this already. That and the survivors.”

Molly raises hey eyebrows,

“What does that mean?”

“Six other people. Apart from us. Freddie Lounds? The journalist.”

Jimmy snorts and Jack shuts him up with a look,

“Yeah, Jimmy. Freddie Lounds. She's being uncharacteristically quiet which makes me wonder? Frederick Chilton. He might be nearly dead. But he's not, and although Hannibal may consider him punished enough, he also might not. Or any agency Hannibal has in the world might think him not yet sufficiently destroyed for what he said and did. Miriam Lass. She found Hannibal originally. That doesn't feel like a done deal just yet. Though she's currently detained on health grounds.”

“For shooting Chilton?” Molly asks, Jack shrugs a reply.

“Yeah. I know. Hasn't come to trial yet. Got bunged up with Hannibal's, some sub judice crap. Matthew Brown. The guy who didn't kill Hannibal. Why the fuck he didn't just shoot him or let him drown, I don't know. And yes Jimmy Price, I know.”

He glares again at Jimmy who holds his hands up in defence,

“Yeah. Thanks Jimmy. So, Brown, currently in the BSHCI awaiting trial. Same reasons as Miriam. I'm not sure about Reba McClane. She might count as a survivor.”

He sees Molly’s look of query,

“Francis Dolarhyde’s girlfriend.”

Molly nods,

“Ok. Yes. Will mentioned her. He saw her. Is she alright?”

“As far as I know. But I'm getting someone down to talk to her. Alright then, there's all of us in this room, plus Brian Zeller, and the Verger-Blooms, and Bedelia DuMaurier.”

Molly frowns,

“Wasn’t she the one who..?”

“Yeah.” Sighs Jack, “She was.”

…………………..

Hannibal helps Will move both his arms, one at a time, then together. Just as high as his shoulder to begin with, then a little higher. Then higher still. 

“Good. Try on your own now.”

Will manages both arms about 45 degrees out from his body. He drops them back.

“Better?”

“Better. Do you know who I am Will?”

Will looks at him, but Hannibal doesn't see Will looking back.

“A dream.”

“Are you asleep?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. I saw Abigail before. And Molly.”

“They're not here.”

“Not now? Or not ever?”

Hannibal smiles at him and then gently pushes him back down on the bed. Will places a hand over one of his.

“Hannibal? I thought you died. I think you died. Didn't I kill you? I didn't mean to. I’m alone now. For real this time. I miss you. It's my own fault.”

He closes his eyes and Hannibal regards him. He sits then on the edge of the bed and continues to hold Will’s hand. It's possible that Will has somehow become trapped in his own mind, taken a kind of chipped and desperate refuge there. It pains Hannibal to think that he's lonely. But then, Will has always been lonely. Surrounded by people, and always the wrong people. With his other hand he strokes Will’s face. Thinks back to what he'd said,

“You're not alone. I'm standing right beside you.”

He'd meant it then. And he means it still. And if this isn't Will’s own coping mechanism? Hannibal's forgiveness will take its usual shape. Hannibal smile as little at the irony. How Bedelia had urged him to certain perceptions about forgiveness and betrayal. Too great for one person? Well, she could share in her own conclusions, and live with them. A small smile curls around the edge of his face before it vanishes.

………………….

Hannibal hears the radio crackle. Always the precursor to the coastguard on the mainland or one of the wardens making contact about bad weather incoming or a visit or a supply drop. He sits in front of the desk with the heavy old fashioned machine. 100% rock solid and reliable though, apparently never failed even in the worst storm.

“This is Lighthouse 300919, receiving, over”

“Philip? That you? How you holding out?”

“Fine. Thank you. Is this weather or a different kind of storm?”

The coastguard at the other end of the radio-waves laughs,

“Just weather. Nothing more interesting. You've got visitors right?”

“Yes, my cousin and her friend.”

“They be ok with it?”

“My cousin, certainly. I don't think her friend is used to roughing it.”

The coastguard laughs again. Hannibal quite likes him, he'd prefer not to kill him or his sweet and quiet wife. Always knitting. For the Seaman’s mission apparently. She'd offered him a hat, or socks. For his boots.

“Well she'll learn fast enough. How's your other friend? He doing any better? Will he be up to helping?”

Hannibal smiles, this is one of the reasons he likes the man, genuinely concerned and kind and what he doesn't know about tides and winds and coastlines could be etched only on the smallest of scrimshaw.

“He's still half unconscious most of the time. He's had a challenging few months. I'm hoping he'll be up in the next week or so.”

“Well, we hope so too. Let me know if we can do anything. Even if it's just company or a visit when your cousin’s gone. We can't do it often but once in a blue moon.”

Hannibal laughs, ‘blue moon’ is code for almost never but the gesture is one he appreciates.

“Next time the moon is blue we'll expect you. Now, tell me about the storm.”

………………..

Late in the afternoon Chiyoh finds Hannibal checking the dock and the lines on the two boats.

“Bad weather?”

“The coastguard called.”

He stands and looks at her with stone in his eyes,

“There's a storm heading this way.”

She nods slowly,

“Then we will be ready for it.”

She pauses.

“I checked the footage.”

…………………


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for lots of interesting comments and thoughts! You are such intriguing readers! I love it.
> 
> Here comes chapter five! Ready, steady....
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter.. for my friends Avidreadr2004 and Hannigram-hell, Youweresoafraid and Zig-zag-wanderer. Thank you.

Jack Crawford runs a hand over his face again and then looks down into them, as if somehow some of the answers he desperately needs might be there. He's no palmist though so he looks back up at his three person lab team,

“It's just embarrassing is what it is.”

Jack nods, Brian has a point,

“She’s just ahead of us each time.”

Jimmy mutters,

“Almost like she knows him and shit.”

Brian glares at his friend and colleague,

“Will was never exactly forthcoming. Even with Bev.”

He pauses,

“Or Dr Bloom. When they were friends.”

He sees the look on Jack’s face,

“What? They were friends. For a bit. Ok. Yeah. A while ago. Fuck.”

Jack nods, pauses but then says,

“The only person who was ever really friendly with Will was Hannibal. Alright.”

He sees their faces, even Sean is caught up in this,

“And maybe Bev. Though she didn't exactly listen.”

He holds up a hand fast,

“That came out wrong. I don't blame her in the slightest.”

The two men left from the science team that Bev had once bullied and hazed and kind of loved stop looking their own kind of murderous. 

“But even with her he held back. He had to have done. What was haunting him?”

He shakes his head again,

“Ok. So. It is what it is. Which is a fuck up. I know that. And don't think Kade Purnell has forgotten either.”

The other men stop shifting around. If the Office of the Inspector General is hounding Jack this can go three ways, bad, worse, and total shit storm. Probably the latter if their collective history is anything to go by. 

Jimmy can't help but sneer,

“Let me guess it's all ‘outrageous government conduct’ again isn't it. God. That record got old fast. What else does she want. Apart from us to not have lost Hannibal fucking Lecter and now Will? Wait, please tell me Molly Graham hasn't been to see her?”

Jack blinks,

“Not as far as I know. Though that could explain why..”

He stops. His guys watch him do the whole face rub thing again. He looks beyond stressed. Jimmy doesn't know how he looks, he stopped looking in the mirror a few weeks ago, maybe. Brian has stopped shaving and his beard is growing in way whiter than Jimmy could have expected. Christ this ageing all of them. Even Sean, he looks wired. And he wasn't even here for the shit storm that was a Hannibal Fucking Lecter free before. Still, that means he doesn't have the same kind of baggage as the rest of them.

When he'd sat in on bits of the trial and mix of loyalty to his team and curiosity driving his attendance Sean had been first bemused and then worried by the thrall that Lecter seemed to have his colleagues in. Every moment Hannibal had been on the stand seemed to weave a spell round them all. He understands why Molly thinks Hannibal orchestrated it all, from before he gave himself up, probably.

“It's not a fairy tale. If that's what any of you are thinking. I saw this thing in Tattle Crime? Freddie Lounds? It's not her name on it but it's got her name all over it, if you get me? Murder Husbands? Will disappearing. Like for real this time. Not just chasing him off to some Italian getaway in Florence. You should read the comments.”

He pushes his tablet onto the table and somewhat reluctantly Jack reaches out and turns it around to scan first the headline and then the body of the text and then the comments. There's some crazy stuff in there. But also a strong thread of what he can only describe as lovelorn romantic yearning.

He glances up at Sean,

“This is bullshit.”

Sean grins wryly,

“Just checking. I know. Is it Freddie? And if so, why now?”

Jack equivocates, turns it back round so Jimmy and Brian can see, they both read it. Slowly Brian says,

“I don't think so. I don't know. Do we even know where she is? Why would she put her head above the parapet? Ok. I'm not stupid, I know there's hits in this. If she gets a line on Will, on either of them. Maybe Hannibal especially. But. She's got to be high on his hit list. Doesn't she?”

Jimmy makes a face,

“Ok. So she pissed Will off. But she pissed us all off. And ok she never actually said something really outrageous about Hannibal did she? Nothing that was a lie anyway?”

Sean smiles a little,

“Even with the whole ‘Hannibal the Cannibal TM’ thing?”

Brian shrugs,

“Everyone knows that was Chilton, he trademarked it. She just put it out there. And she did cooperate over the whole Dolarhyde business. So, maybe, well, maybe Hannibal isn't interested in her especially. Except to divert us?”

They all look back at the tablet. It's not the first time Jack has wondered about the possibility of Freddie Lounds playing out both ends of the line. He sighs,

“Ok. I'll try and get her in. Or at least talk to her. We have any clues where the fuck she is?"

The three men shrug, but Jack isn't too surprised when Brian hangs back at the end of the briefing to talk to him.

“Look. It was only a few times. But. Well.”

Jack looks at him a little sardonically maybe,

“Yeah? Look, forget it, statute of limitations ran out on that a while back. Tell me what you got.”

………………..

Sean looks over Brian's file on his visit to Reba McClane. Nothing there. Nothing there at first glance. He reads back something they said towards the end,

‘I liked him. He was sympathetic without being sentimental. Interested. And like he understood what I meant from the inside. I didn't understand that bit at the time. But Lecter? Is that what he meant?’

Brian had made some non-commital noise, and she'd carried on,

‘At the time I guess it was to do with how it had been before? But I'm reading into it now. Hard not to isn't it? Second guessing it all? I said something about not wanting to be around those who feed off neediness, create dependency, that the blind attract them. He said “not just the blind”. I thought about that. And now? Which way round do you think he meant? Is Lecter dependent on him, or Mr Graham on Lecter?’

From the transcript it looks like Brian said something rather bland in response, but Sean wonders about it. Reba had nothing to do with the trial. It was before she even entered the story. But he'd seen how Will looked. Even with Molly when they all went for coffee after an especially bad day. Will had clung to her like a life boat. He looked the dependent sort. But that wasn't how Sean had seen it. Will had looked unmoored. Clinging to anything. And that happened to be Molly. Tough for her he thinks. Because Hannibal? Even Sean could see that Hannibal looked at Will as though he was his true north. The only means to navigate the world. The only way to find himself. And Will? Will looked like he was fucking lost. So? Sean gets the romance, can understand Freddie Lounds' jibe and that the reason it festers is that it's so close to truth that everyone resists it. Even if everyone gets lost in it.

The door clicks and Jimmy comes in,

“You reading Brian's notes?”

Sean nods and Jimmy carries on,

“There's nothing really there. Except. If we'd known to talk to her before it all went down? We might have had a clue.”

“You think it's there?”

“I think she didn't know she knew. Why would she. And yeah, she thinks she knows now. Something anyway. Not the detail. Just. Will was already in neck deep, and liable to drown.”

Sean looks at him,

“Not drowning Jim. Waving.”

Jimmy blinks, shakes his head,

“You think? You think he was in on it?”

Sean makes a face,

“I know. Hard isn't it? I like Molly Graham. But. Really? The more I look at this? Will was lost a long time ago. Hard to say if it was before or after Lecter tripped him into the BSHCI, but around then. And yeah. Fuck. Despite Bev.”

Jimmy nods,

“It's that bit I hate. The rest of it? I think Hannibal was fixated on him right from the get go. We used to joke about it. Behind his back. Of course. Bev teased Will a bit but you know. He cared about Will. Ok. It got warped. But fuck it he did. I know it makes no sense. Psychopath and everything..”

He trails off but Sean nods,

“Obsession goes both ways. What Reba McClane says here? Will had a chance at an ordinary quiet sweet kind of life. Fuck it? He told Jack he was lucky! Not lucky enough. But he couldn't accept it. First chance? Soon as Jack asked? Straight back in there. He sabotaged himself. His nice sweet ordinary life. And now what? Lecter’s out and maybe Will is with him.”

“And they all lived happily ever after?”

Sean stops and looks down at the report, then around the office, on the wall are missing person posters, the timeline, other bits and pieces. The normal detritus of a case. Two cases. A missing agent and an escaped ‘most wanted’.

“Honestly? I don't know? Is this what Will wanted? What Lecter wanted?”

“Lecter wanted Will. Somehow.. some way.”

“Yeah Jimmy. And fuck Molly Graham?”

Jimmy nods sadly,

“She's fucked either way. She probably always was. I think she knows that. Deep down."

“Damn.”

………………….

The storm doesn't hit until the early hours of the morning. But then? Hannibal can feel the Tower shudder against its impact. Will mutters and tosses in his sleep. He'd woken earlier, confused and anxious. Hannibal had sat beside him and held his hand, murmured quiet words of comfort. At one point he'd fixed Hannibal with a desperate look,

“I don't want to be your victim anymore. Please.”

Hannibal had been surprised and maybe even a little confused. Then he thought about what Chiyoh had seen and he steeled himself a little more.

“Shh. You're no one’s victim. Not even your own. You're safe here.”

“Molly says I should let you help me. That you're in love with me. Did she mean that?. I thought she loved me. But she said you loved me more.. and that it was more… I can't remember. More something. Why would she say that? She used to love me. I fucked that up didn't I?”

Hannibal hadn't said anything in reply just soothed a hand over Will’s hairline, still not entirely sure it was him whom Will saw. Or that he knew it was real, and not another drug induced dream.

“I still miss you. I came to your house for dinner. You probably don't remember. It was a long time ago. I brought you a bottle of wine.. I thought.. I thought.. I was stupid. I thought it was just me.”

He'd trailed off and Hannibal had realised he'd gone back to sleep. He does remember. With a kind of aching clarity. He'd kept the bottle. It was the one he'd opened the night they'd killed the red dragon. He wasn't sure if Will knew. Maybe he'd tell him. Interesting he'd thought it was an invitation just for him. It could have been. Hannibal had toyed with the idea. But the encephalitis? Such a unique opportunity. 

He looks down at Will. He'd do it different now. Maybe. Though it's hard to regret that they're here. Now. An especially hard gust causes another shudder and Will clutches his hand and looks at him with the same imploring look he remembers from when Will had been in the cages in the ‘therapy area’ of the BSHCI. He'd begged for help then too. ‘Please.’ It's as hard to resist now as it was then.

…………………..

The storm is at full spate somewhere just before dawn, the rain is monstrously loud on the roof of the small building adjacent to the tower of the lighthouse, it’s lost at least a tile during the night. But the generator is still working and the gas bottle that supplies the small burner hasn't stuttered. Chiyoh looks at Bedelia, Bedelia looks far more composed than she has any right to be, she carries on with the hot drink she's making, throws a glance in Chiyoh’s direction and shivers, but that's the seeping cold not any anxiety she might feel,

“I found the camera Chiyoh. How long has it been there?”

Chiyoh pauses,

“I didn't see you turn it off?”

“There's no need to. There's nothing on it that I'd rather you didn't see.”

“Or Hannibal?”

“Or Hannibal. Do you want some tea? Or coffee? Something?”

Chiyoh frowns and shrugs,

“Tea. Thank you.”

She pauses whilst Bedelia carries on making the drinks. She takes the time to collect a decent mug for Chiyoh and holds up the ordinary tea bags and then some green tea. Chiyoh indicates the ordinary.

“With milk. Please.”

Bedelia nods and finishes off the two drinks. She sits on one of the three upright kitchen chairs at the small scrubbed table in what doubles as a kitchen and living space. She crosses one elegantly trousered leg over the other. The trousers are her concession to the spartan conditions. She looks at Chiyoh expectantly, she sits opposite,

“I suppose you want to ask?”

Chiyoh nods,

“You have been changing the IV bags too often. I assume you have been adding other medication to them? And the lights?”

Bedelia doesn't say anything just takes a small sip of her own drink. Chiyoh carries on,

“I've shown Hannibal the footage. Of course.”

“Of course.” Bedelia echoes.

“So what is it? Hannibal says he used light therapy on Will Graham. A long time ago. When he had encephalitis.”

“I remember. Not the detail. Hannibal didn't exactly share that. But some of it I guessed. He and Frederick Chilton discussed it once. At a dinner party. I wasn't there. But I heard about it. And of course Hannibal and I discussed the principles of it. Will was very susceptible to it.”

“Because he was ill?”

“I'm sure that didn't hurt. An inflammation of the brain? That almost certainly is what induced the seizures but his behaviour would have been affected anyway. The empathy disorder, made that more likely.”

“By the therapy?”

Bedelia nods. Chiyoh makes a ‘go on’ gesture, Bedelia snorts impatiently,

“I'm not a fool. I know the chances of me exiting this with any kind of grace or..”

She pauses and takes another few sips, Chiyoh waits her out,

“..intactness, is not high. So. I anticipate Will is actually my biggest obstacle to a relatively happy outcome. And potentially my greatest ally.”

In a rush Chiyoh understands,

“You're not poisoning him against Hannibal? You're? You are helping Will to see that? What?”

Bedelia smiles somewhat sardonically,

“You called it ‘other means of influence’. He told me. And he's highly influenceable in that direction.”

“You are endeavouring to broker a, what? A peace deal?”

“More than that. If no one interferes. I might be able to convince him to stay. And that it was his idea.”

Chiyoh moves her head, hard to tell if she's indicating assent or disagreement.

“Not so far off the truth. He came to me. Originally. With the plan.”

Bedelia nods,

“Of course. I assumed it was that way round. Even if you didn't say so. I can see the pull. And of course with the trial over.”

Chiyoh almost interrupts.

“He contacted me then. He knew I'd be in the US? Somewhere close. In case there was a chance.”

“To free Hannibal? Of course. Missed though?”

Chiyoh shrugs,

“Hannibal's idea was better. And that it would create more confusion. In the end.”

Bedelia nods,

“When did you decide to involve me? Or perhaps I should ask why?”

She carries on with her drink and watches Chiyoh over the rim of the mug,

“When we met in Florence I could see we might still use your skills. I heard you on the lecture tour. So did Will Graham.”

“I saw Will. I don't remember you being there.”

“Lots of people. Easy to stay out sight. Columns and pillars, tall people, hats, I wasn't especially evasive.”

“And it wouldn't have mattered if I'd seen you?”

Chiyoh smiles makes her own play at drinking from her cup as if to stall for time, or thought,

“It wouldn't have mattered. So, before or after you decided to extract him?”

“I didn't tell Will.”

“Ah. I wondered. He still thinks I'm his wife. I don't intend to disabuse him. In fact. It helps.”

Chiyoh nods,

“Yes. It would.”

She pauses,

“He thinks I'm Abigail. The child? Well. Young adult. That Hannibal punished him with?”

Bedelia nods,

“I know. He came to me straight after. He was in a terrible state.”

“He left his nakama for dead. It is not surprising. But you went with him anyway?”

Bedelia smiles,

“You heard my lecture. What do you think?”

Chiyoh smiles,

“You have an affinity for carnage and destruction and I think you have a love hate relationship with yourself.”

Bedelia smiles,

“I thought you might say Hannibal. Interesting. I think there's some truth in that. I always want to see how far I can push myself. As well as others. Of course.”

“Of course.”

“I hope that by the end Will will be convinced his original plan was the best one and this has just been a year long detour back to himself and to Hannibal.”

“A year? It's only been what, oh, ten months. Yes. I see. Almost a year.”

She sighs. Another year. Gone. Like that. Though it probably hasn't felt like that for any of them. And so fast. And so draggingly slow at times.

“How far do you think you have got?”

“Will is unlearning his hopelessness. And possibly..”

They're interrupted by a crashing sound outside, startling both of them out of their seats, more surprised too when the door bangs open and two men, unknown to either of them, burst in. They're soaking wet and exhausted, loud, and urgent; the tension in the room shoots through the rafters,

“Fucking hell! Who the fuck are you? Where's the keeper? We've got a boat half sunk on the other side of the bay. Two more guys. One of them hurt. Fuck!”

Chiyoh looks wildly at Bedelia and then back at the two men, still shocked by their appearance. 

“I'll get him. Bedelia stay here. I'll get Philip.”

She's gone before any of them can say anything to stop her, ducking under the arm of one of the men, probably not outstetched to stop her, hard to tell, maybe just the rush and fright they've experienced. 

Bedelia looks at the two men dripping wet and over adrenalined and possibly angry too,

“Sit. She'll be a few minutes. I'll make you a drink.”

The scent of violence fills the room before she has even turned away, one of the men straightens up and looks at her,

“Is Lecter here? We've come for him. I don't know who you are. The other woman? We know her. You though? I've nothing on you. If you don't fuck it up. You could get out of this ok.”

Bedelia sits back down and takes another mouthful of her drink,

“I meant it about the drink. She'll be a few minutes. Are you from the Verger-Blooms?”

She sees the look on their faces, 

“Independent contractors then? Here just for Dr Lecter? Or… what?”

“There's a reward. Feds. In the US. You know?”

She nods.

“I'm aware. So. Drink?”

The two men frown.

“I know you. You're the one who he took aren't you. You were married to him. Or something.”

“Something? Yes. That's fair I think. So. No drink then. Shame.”

The three of them pause. One of the men glances at his compatriot, colleague, idiot friend,

“Why’s it taking so long?”

“We should have gone with her.”

They both pause. And look at Bedelia, she shrugs a little,

“Honestly? What did you expect? At least you won't be left on display. That's something isn't it?”

“We’re armed!”

They're both shocked when she just laughs,

“Really? Armed? Astonishing. I hope you came very well armed. And prepared.”

“We've got you? Haven't we? Hostage?”

She smiles,

“You really don't.”

The lights in the room dip.

………………………

Will shrugs himself up to sitting. For all that the noise outside is terrible and there is barely enough light to see, he knows there is something wrong. The room is empty. No ghost or friend or both beside him. His head swims a little but not so badly. He feels his head. No bandages, though he can feel the scar, on his forehead, on his cheek. But. Something's different. His beard is longer than usual. And so is his hair.

What the? Where the fuck is he? Ok. The round room. Yes. That's almost familiar, something pulling at his brain. But that noise? Oh? Oh he gets it. Rain and wind! Really bad. A storm or hurricane or something. He listens harder. Fuck! That's bad. Is it safe here? He casts round, moving his head slowly against the nausea anything at all approaching normal speed trips. There's a jacket left over the back of the chair beside his bed. He frowns at it.

As he drags himself to his feet he disengages himself from the IV line. He's done that before hasn't he? Maybe. Yes. Maybe. For sure. He's slightly steadier on his feet than he expects. Yeah. Physical therapy. The ghost of his friend helping. Hannibal. Walking him across this room and back. Moving him, helping him move. Keeping him safe. He can do this. He pulls the jacket on. A bit too big. Not surprising. If he's been ill.

At the door he pushes it helplessly until he realises it slides open and closed. He hauls it to one side. Stairs up and stairs down circling round the building. Out of sight in both directions. He looks back into this room, the windows mean he's above ground. Right then. Downwards.

Down one floor he slides the door open and looks inside. There's a lamp alight in here. He doesn't go in but it feels incredibly familiar somehow. The arrangement. Two paintings. The desk and chair set up. The armchairs. An area Turkish rug. A decent sized bed. And a small keyboard instrument he doesn't recognise but looks like a tiny version of the harpsichord Hannibal used to have in his sitting room. The rain shudders against the Tower again as he realises that's what it is. A tower. A fucking Tower. What the actual hell?

He slides the door back, both more and less confused and stumbles the last bit of the stairs down into a room where the door is already open into it. A kitchen? Sort of? There's a complex bit of radio set up in one corner. There's a light on in here too. But it's empty. Somehow desperately empty.

That's when he hears the shots. Loud even against the noise of the storm. Outside? Outside. The door on the other side of the room must lead out side. God he's in no shape to leave the building. None at all. He doesn't even have shoes.

He's saved from further indecision. The door is pushed back and Hannibal pushes in half carrying Chiyoh. Wills eyes open wider, but if anything he's marginally less surprised than Hannibal, who never the less hits practicality dead on the head,

“Take her. If you can. They hit her arm. I must go back for Bedelia. One of them is dead. I'm not so sure if..”

He pauses,

“Hello Will. Can you take her?”

Will nods and moves forwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter I hit 750,000 words in the fandom. (In nine months.)
> 
> Dear gods in heaven. 
> 
> What did I do before writing?


	6. Chapter 6

The rain is still lashing down outside and the intermittent flash of the lighthouse only adds further nightmares to the shadows. In the pre-dawn gloaming he steps over the man he killed earlier. The guy had managed one shot, just winging Chiyoh , but had then panicked when Hannibal didn't stop for her, or for anything. Just walked towards him. Steadily. The guy had almost slumped into him, as though accepting an inevitability. The sharp and deadly kind. He had clutched at Hannibal's shoulders and Hannibal had had a sudden memory of Will. It was an unwelcome reminder and if his twist in the guts was tighter and nastier as a result? Not unexpected. 

The man was probably dead or close to it before he made it to the ground. There had been no heart beat to pump the blood out of his body, just gravity working its inexorable and deadly force. Now though? Even in the dark it's hard to see its spread, likely that the rain has already washed it away. Not black in the moonlight. Not this time.

At the door of the small building there's more blood, pooled just inside the entranceway, out of the rain and under cover. Carefully he pushes open the door. Bedelia is seated beside the table again. This time she is drinking from a glass of wine.

On the floor is the second man. Maybe still alive? Bleeding from a shot wound. She looks at Hannibal steadily, speaks over the sound of the rain, louder now with the door open as well as the constant ricochet from the roof.

“He was too slow. Chiyoh left her gun. Where it usually is. I tried not to kill him. I heard shots. Is she alright? Are you?”

Hannibal nods and kneels beside the man on the floor,

“We’ll take him back to the lighthouse. I'm sure there are some things he'd like to tell us.”

The man's face looks closed up, but Hannibal knows what people will do to stay alive, if they possibly can, and though this guy might not beg for his life, he might beg that the pain on the way, paving the route to death is short and if not sweet then fast and over. Hannibal cocks his head to one side, shakes the shoulder of the man who gasps with the pain,

“You know who I am?”

“Lecter? Yeah. I know. Where's my brother?”

“Just the two of you?”

The man nods, but then changes his mind,

“No. My dad. With the boat. I thought. We thought..”

“Not enough. Clearly. Are you armed further? Knife?”

The man shakes his head, it seems to make him so dizzy he can barely speak and his head lowers.

Hannibal searches through his pockets, checks his ankles for a holster, checks under his arms, the small of his back. Nothing.

“Sensible not to lie. It won't go easier. But sensible all the same. You know what I'm capable of?”

The man groans an affirmation. Hannibal gets him under the arms and slowly lifts him, the shot is through his lower abdomen. It's probably hit several unforgiving things. And if Hannibal had had a 1 in 10 chance of surviving? This man has a big fat zero chance. Even without Hannibal's assistance.

He glances at Bedelia.

“Do you wish to come? You don't have to? Will managed to get downstairs. He helping Chiyoh now. They winged her."

She pauses,

“How bad is she?”

“Probably just a flesh wound. He caught her arm.”

“It would be better for Will not to see me. Chiyoh said she showed you..?"

Hannibal nods at her,

“Very well. We shall speak of that later. Stay here. I'll deal with the other man. I don't expect he'll come any time soon. And he won't radio just yet. Unless..”

He trails off, and she smiles,

“I could bring him back here. With or without the gun.”

The man he is supporting groans again, Hannibal nods.

“Alright then. I shall return.”

……………………

Brian presses his finger tips against his eye lids, feeling his eye balls beneath them, oh so tired. They're probably blood shot. Who was it who pushed out the eyeballs? Gideon? Yeah. Gideon. He thinks for a moment about Abel Gideon. He'd only interviewed him once, surprised by his erudition and mannerliness until Brian had broached the subject of his wife. Then! Then the guy was utterly and clearly off his head. Weird the things that trigger people. The quiet small daily murders of domestic life. Killing you slowly, bit by bit. Brian shudders. Not for him. Though it's lonely sometimes. And really, this job? Also death, by increments.

His elbows are resting on the desk in front of him, he straightens and tries to crick his neck a little. God but this is the worst. Microfiche? Nothing worse. Why isn't this shit digitised?

He sighs to himself and goes back to looking for immigration records. Hannibal fucking Lecter. So far he's found details of the sister and some dead parents. And some partial adoption records. An uncle. But nothing further. Fuck it. And shit he doesn't want to have to look at the Japanese records. But it looks like he'll have to. Fuck he'll need an intern for that. Or someone. Who can read the scripts. He knows he's got no chance. He thinks about Bev. For all that she spoke Korean she'd had some Japanese and some Hebrew, from a childhood sometimes spent in shul. It was something they'd had in common though his family had been liberal and her’s reform. God he misses her. Still. So much.

‘Robertus Lecter’. Damn. Married to a ‘Murasaki’. Some suburb of Kyoto? Alright then. Now he'll have to find out if they're alive. Maybe? How old is Lecter? He does some math in his head and considers. If either of them alive they could be anything from mid sixties or seventies to, well, anything really. Robertus was the older brother though? So? Probably in his eighties or nineties? Shit. Though the wife could be younger. If she's still alive. If if if. Too many fucking ‘ifs’. And so what if they are? Will it make any difference at all? Could they still be in touch with Lecter? Has anyone checked his correspondence in the BSHCI? Oh for fuck’s sake, there are just so many loose ends.

He thinks of Freddie Lounds. Ok, so maybe Hannibal is using her. Could they, more importantly could he? Just possibly. Though he should talk to Jack. Yeah. Talk to Jack. Wasn't he going to speak to her?

……………………

 

Stumbling, Will manages to get an arm under Chiyoh’s and helps them both into chairs. He breathes heavily, but the adrenaline seems to be helping him focus. She's already shoving the coat down off her shoulder.

“It's not bad. He clipped me I think. Can you see?”

He helps her get her arm out of the sleeve and then shoves her shirt somewhat ungently off her shoulder, stretching the neck of it. They struggle with it and eventually compromise on pushing it up off her torso and then leave it half on and half off. The bullet did only catch her. Lost somewhere in the night now. He pulls a dish towel off the table, grimaces at it slightly, but presses it over the wound.

“I can't tell? What did he have? It's not too bad. Hold this. I'll find something.”

She looks down at where his hand is pressing the cloth against her. Sees him grimacing at the press around his fingers, the blood still trickling down her arm, the flow almost staunched but not quite. The last time they'd been this close she'd kissed him. And then pushed him off a train. Hannibal had laughed about it. Maybe violence isn't everything to him now. Maybe Bedelia’s idea is working?

“Revolver. I think. His hand was shaking.”

He raises his eyes and looks at her,

“Who was it? Or is it?”

“Someone looking for Hannibal.”

Will laughs. And Chiyoh realises that even though he must have seen him he still doesn't realise that Hannibal is alive. There. Or at least, somewhere outside. In the dark.

“Here? Well good luck with that. Did you kill the guy?”

She shakes her head, and then nods. Strictly speaking, no, she didn't, but in the wider spirit of things? Yes. Yes she did. Will says nothing at first, but then asks,

“Just the one?”

“No. More than one. It's being taken care of.”

He nods and takes a deeper breath,

“Alright. I'll.. I'll find something. Can you hold it? Is there a kit here?”

She tips her chin up indicating the drawers nearest the door.

“In there. But there's more in the bathroom. And upstairs too. In your room.”

He gets up and leans heavily on the back of first his chair and then hers as he struggles the infinite distance to the wooden chest of drawers, battered, scarred across the surface, old pine, serviceable and once they might have been considered fine.

“I thought you were Abigail. Before.”

She doesn't say anything, just waits. When he comes back she starts unpacking the kit and he staggers to the gas ring and checks the kettle and lights the burner.

“Where are we Chiyoh? I admit I'm hazy about pretty much everything. But fuck. Where the hell? What the hell?”

She blinks as he brings over a basin of warm water, gets out the gauze and then begins to clean her own shoulder. He slumps in his chair and looks at her,

“Really? The silent treatment? I have no clue here? Help me out. Yeah? Just a bit.”

His mouth is testy with disuse and really he wishes he'd got the energy to get back to the stove or the sink for some water or something more.

“What do you remember? After the cliff?”

He shoots her a look. The cliff? Fuck off. But that must be, what, how long ago. No. Fuck.

“Yeah. Then, what about after the cliff. What the hell happened then?”

She pauses, holds her arm out,

“I cannot do this part alone. I need your assistance.”

He sighs, bone weary, oh for fuck’s sake.

“Alright then. But you will tell me. Right?”

……………………….

The man dies in Hannibal's arms before they've even reached the main building. He doesn't speak, or mutter, his life just ebbs away, from the shock, the blood loss, probably from the fear. Hannibal pulls him beside the other man. The brother. He stands and stretches. Feels for the torch in his pocket. He doesn't switch it on, there's just enough light to see and he knows the landscape well. First from the maps he'd studied before choosing this particular rock, and then, knowing the map is never the territory, learning it through multiple extensive sweeps of the whole island on foot. It's not big. But it's big enough. Coves. Small shore lines, one flank of the island shored up by steep cliffs, some ruins, some hummocks, unknowable and smoothed by time, dunes. An island. Secretive and ready.

He has a good idea where the men might have drawn up, lodged themselves. Found an anchorage. Even in this weather. He wonders if they came early and waited for the worst of the storm to hit. He wonders if anyone back on the mainland knows. He wonders how many other deaths there will need to be. If these are strangers or locals. And who has sent them. So amateur. And not FBI, or other federal agency. Nor the police. He wonders if Bedelia will wait. Or will also be looking. And what Will might have to say.

……………………

Molly sits on the edge of her bed. Wally asleep next door, smothered under a blanket and two dogs. Quiet now after yet another nightmare. She holds a picture of her and Will in her hands. Rubs at the edge of her wedding ring. It's still real she tells herself. Still real. This is Will. Her Will. Even if there are other Wills. And what the hell can she do now? She's got no resources. Sure she can try WitPro, or some other federal agency, make a complaint even. She gets up and pulls open the small wardrobe. 

In the bottom is an old shoe box with some of Will’s things in. Fishing flies in a pouch, he'd given up he said, used to fish, not any more. She wonders if he hadn't maybe meant more by that than she'd thought at the time. He hadn't sounded wistful about it, just, resigned maybe. There are two polaroids, one of Will and some South East Asian woman. On a beach. But not for fun, both of them well wrapped against what looks like some awful wind off the sea. Some snow on the sand. They're both looking up at something, the woman laughing. Will looking bemused and maybe even a little amused. Like there's been some joke. She can just see Brian Zeller in the background. Maybe this was some work scene? Someone took a picture, just for the heck of it, and Will kept it. Which means it meant something to him. 

Oh she thinks. Oh. The woman, the agent who died. Maybe her. Killed, murdered by Lecter. It had been covered in the trial. That death. One amongst so many others, but perhaps given a little more attention, her being in law enforcement and everything, the justice system protecting their own. She snorts to herself, justice system? Yeah. Right. Will and she had come home after and he'd locked himself in the bathroom for a couple of hours, not coming out for dinner or even at bed time. But he'd been there, beside her, in the morning. Asleep. Wrung out. And then back to the court for another day of miserable hell.

The other Polaroid is just some boat. The Nola. She can see the name on the transom. It doesn't mean anything to her. Maybe it was one he worked on sometime. Or sailed. They've done a little, not much, just a small sail boat, when Wally said he was keen. Though it hadn't become something regular. Nothing that they did. Not a hobby.

She sets it aside. Like so much in her life. In Will’s life. As though everything is about things that can be only set aside. The rest of the box is a mix of old letters in envelopes, a notebook, two certificates, one a death certificate for his mother. Strange. She didn't know he had it, had had any contact with her since childhood. Nothing about his father. No contact address. Though he's still alive she thinks. Somewhere. Fuck. Maybe she'll have to find him. Or ask the Feds to. So much she doesn't know. She sighs. So fucking much. Stuff maybe she should have asked about before. Her quiet sweet man. So sweet.

In the bottom of the box is a cancelled FBI card, stamped out. Useless now. She wonders why Will kept it. She looks at it more closely. She'd thought it was his non-agent card, but it's not. It's fucking not. It has ‘Hannibal Lecter MD, PhD’, printed neatly across it. Some small capitals and uncials. Not Will’s handwriting. So. Maybe his. But Will kept it. 

She goes back to the letters, two from his father but neither dated within the last year. Still, maybe the addresses are good. The more recent one? One envelope has a review of an article Will wrote in it. She puts that aside too, shoving the clipping back in. But the last one has the same neat writing flared across the front. She pulls it out, this is news to her, new to her. She scans it. She realises she'd been praying it was recent. Something from the last year. Something Will was still struggling with. Considering. It's been read several times. She can tell. It's been folded differently at least once. Maybe in frustration or anger. Damn. Her hands are shaking. What had Will’s hands been like?

The letter is from several years back. She thinks about it. After Lecter gutted Will. It's not an apology. But it is something. And about Abigail. Slightly goading? Or not quite that, lamenting? There's some frustration there. How he and Will keep losing children. She shudders. Fuck. Still true. She tries not to think of Wally or of what she accidentally exposed him to. And Will must have known. Must have. Though Wally would only have been Will’s. Not Lecter's. She closes her eyes and swallows. Jack Crawford talked about survivors. And how damn close it was. And this letter?

She reads the rest of it again. Tries for a lucid and objective read of it. Tries for a semblance of calm. Tries for something. She knows Lecter wrote to Will more recently. Though Will burnt it. She'd asked him about it but he wouldn't say. Only that Lecter had told him to stay away. She'd been surprised. But now she wonders. Did Lecter know Will would tell her? Was she meant to push Will? Or was the letter just to alert him? That the time was coming? That the time was right? She looks back at the letter in her hands. Had Will seen it as an invitation? She knows he went looking for Lecter. All the way to Lithuania and Sicily and Italy. Paris too? Maybe. He hadn't been evasive about it when she'd asked, just cautious.

She looks back to the picture of the boat. Oh. Oh fuck. Someone mentioned it at the trial. He fucking sailed there. She'd had vague thoughts of a liner, some waterborne opportunity to think, to submerge himself in sea and spray and brine. But maybe he'd actually sailed. In this tiny boat. Across the Atlantic. Oh Will. Oh Will. Oh god. 

Lecter wanted him to come. Didn't even have to say so. And Will had followed. Simply followed. Like now. Followed him again. Until they fell. God. He did know. Lecter called. A siren. And Will? He was in on it. He was in on it. He must have been. He must. Fuck.

She pushes everything back into the box and closes it sharply. She knows she should tell Jack Crawford. She's not sure how she can. Some last betrayal. But she's not sure if it's of her or by her.

…………………………

 

In the downstairs room of the Lighthouse Chiyoh swallows a second round of painkillers. And then an antibiotic. It's mostly precautionary, but the bullet passed through fibres before passing through her, and that dishcloth? So she's careful. She's persuaded Will to sleep, in the armchair next to the range. He'd almost passed out with fatigue and she'd convinced him she could manage. And that they were safe. Or as safe as they could ever be. He'd given up arguing. Knowing that he was just exhausting himself further.

She knows she's waiting really. Just, waiting. There must have been some problem with the second man. It probably, almost certainly, means he is dead too. And if there's another? And another? Well then. Hannibal is out there as well. And he knows the land. And the multiple things that are at stake. She looks at Will as he slowly breathes in and out. Strange that he'd provoke such intensity of feeling in Hannibal. Though he has never done things by halves. And something in Will Graham has pushed him to an edge. More than one. Repeatedly.

She sighs.

…………………………

Alana looks at her wife.

“Where is he?”

“Kyoto. Though they have a second place, in the mountains.”

She nods to herself,

“So the aunt is alive too?”

“No just the uncle. And some servants. Alana?” Margot sounds concerned,

“What?”

“We weren't the first to ask.”

Alana raise her eyebrows,

“Jack got there first? I'm surprised.”

“Maybe the Feds but someone else too. Our guy couldn't see the old man. He's ninety-one. Frail by the sound of it, and the servant wasn't bribable. But she was willing to say Hannibal hasn't been in touch since he went to prison. Before? Yes. Regularly. Even when he was in Paris and Italy. Just once just before the trial. And then nothing. The woman was glad we'd come. They were anxious for news.”

“Did we tell them he's escaped? Or, what?”

“We told them there had been no news after the escape, but that Will Graham had disappeared. The woman definitely knew who he was. But they're not there for sure. Our guy was very thorough. And was convinced. They don't know if Hannibal is alive or dead. But they do know about Will. What he means to Hannibal, though she wouldn't say much. Though, and god, we better not tell Molly Graham this, she called him his ‘koibito to otto’. It means lover and husband.”

Alana stares at her.

“But they never met him? This is just based on what Hannibal has said?”

Margot nods at her,

“What about the younger woman? What do we know about her now?”

“She's called Chiyoh. Childhood connection to the family. She knows Hannibal well. Or she did. The woman was very animated about her. Though she hasn't seen her in a while either. Our guy wondered if they were related but the servant said no. Just fond of her.”

“God. They're a family of psychopaths. She shot Will? In Italy. Though she also saved Jack. Or at least..”

“what?”

Alana lets out a long breath,

“Jack said that he had prevented him from dying. Which isn't the same thing at all. She shot three other people? Maybe.”

“So. We try and find her. And Bedelia Du Maurier.”

Alana nods her own agreement, slowly she says,

“If I could be sure Hannibal wouldn't come after us? Really? I'd leave all of this fuck awful mess well alone.”

“Really? Would you? Aren't we tied into the whole thing? Isn't everything we've got now down to him in some way?”

Alana doesn't say anything. She looks away. Thinks about the intimacy. The window. The pain. That night. That night. And everything it has wrought and brought them to now.

"Even so."

……….......


	7. Chapter 7

The nurse shows Alana into the room and then excuses himself and closes the door quietly behind him on his way out.

Frederick’s oxygen chamber is in the centre of the small hospital room and she feels a momentary sense of déjà vu back to when their positions were reversed. He’d brought flowers, lilies maybe. She hasn’t. She did think of it, momentarily, and then decided it wasn’t in the best taste somehow.

Somewhere, somewhere inside this mess, she feels just very slightly responsible for what has happened to Frederick Chilton; even if he is an oleaginous creep. But not even creeps deserve this. Not even stupid, vain, grasping ones. He hadn’t deserved the gutting by Gideon, or the shooting by Miriam Lass and certainly not this. She’s seen the photographs and it makes her sick to her stomach that Will could have anticipated this outcome. Maybe even hoped for it, or something like it.

She knows she’s got harder. Had to. Had to become brittle and determined, the steel in her back bone more than just literal. But Hannibal’s incarceration brought out a cruel streak she’s not especially proud of. And it reminds her that the opportunity to avenge betrayal does terrible things to people, to the betrayed. So how did Hannibal feel betrayed by Frederick? She recognises it for the excuse it is. It isn’t Hannibal who felt betrayed by Frederick. He’d laughed about it when Frederick had suggested he was Hannibal’s nemesis. It’s Will who felt betrayed.

Of the two, Hannibal and Will, she is beginning to think Will is the more dangerous. The more unmoored by social or other conventions. She’d watched Hannibal get by, succeed even, wearing a well-tailored person suit maybe, but he’d integrated. Will hadn’t even tried. Even with Molly Graham? She wonders about that. Probably Molly does too.

“Are you going to stand over there feeling guilty all day or are you going to talk to me?”

“I’m not feeling especially guilty Frederick.”

She steels herself. That steel again. And walks closer to the chamber. They’d warned her that it was bad. And it is. But she realises she’s somewhat inured to the injuries. Too much exposure on film and television to feel any kind of horror. Too like too many excellent bits of prosthetic or make-up art doing the rounds during Oscar season. Even if horror rarely gets rewarded.

“I’m not surprised Alana. You’ve come a long way in the company of the almost dead. As well as being there yourself of course.”

She draws a chair over from the edge of the room and seats herself beside him, in his line of sight. She tries not to be petty about it.

“I haven’t come to talk about me Frederick. Though the ‘almost dead’ is fair enough. I want to ask about Hannibal.”

“Hannibal the Cannibal? Why? What’s the point now? Another almost dead.”

“Not dead enough. I think we both know that.”

“You think he’s going to come after me? Hardly. I’m probably far more interesting like this. Some little insect he can watch writhe on a pin. I’m pretty pinned Alana and I won’t be combing my hair any time soon.”

She nods. The reference to Georgia Madchen is a reminder of just how blind she’d been. She remembers Will being kind to the woman. Like Reba McClane. Always kind to those he thought were getting a rough kind of deal. Not disabled in themselves but disabled by the attitudes and behaviours of the society around them. She can’t remember if he was kind to her. After the fall. Her’s. Not his. Though perhaps in some sort of way if he has gone willingly then this is his version of kindness. The only sort now left to him.

“Not Hannibal then. Will?”

“Will Graham. And his ‘thing’. Still a hot topic in psychiatric circles. They let me read the press, and the academic journals. As long as I don’t get too upset.”

He scoffs a small sound of bitterness.

“As if I could be any more upset. So. Will Graham. What do you want to ask Alana? It seems like there are all manner of things we should have asked about Will Graham, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps. Is that why you’re looking for him Frederick?”

He doesn’t answer straight away, and she wonders if he will, until he finally says,

“It’s a dead end. The family. There’s nothing there. But I imagine you know that if you know about my enquiries.”

She nods.

“You’re not looking for Hannibal though. Are you? You’re looking for Will?”

“Will Graham will be wherever Hannibal is. Why can’t it be both?”

“Apart from Hannibal’s all round vindictive-ness, no I’ll give you that.”

She holds up a hand as he looks like he wants to interject, but he still says,

“Hannibal is only vindictive over personal actions and slights against himself or those he sees as extensions of himself? Is that what you think Alana? I think that’s as close to it as we’re likely to get.”

“So. That doesn’t make sense Frederick?”

“I happen to think it works both ways. Will got some kind of revenge against me, for slighting Hannibal. Though I honestly think Hannibal is indifferent to my fate. As indifferent as he is to anybody’s, except Will Graham’s, he’s not indifferent about that. At all. So, Will Graham cleaned the slate. As the kids would say ‘we’re all good’. And I’ve done nothing to him, either of them since. I’m off the board. So to speak.”

She frowns at him,

“So why go looking?”

“I said the slate was clean. I didn’t say I wanted to keep it that way. If Hannibal Lecter stays away from me, I’ll stay away from him. His pet though? Fair game.”  
“But you just said that Hannibal won’t be indifferent about anything that happens to Will.”

Frederick grimaces,

“Karma’s a bitch like that.”

......................................

When he looks out of the window of his trailer he sees a red-haired woman dressed kind of smart tart. He doesn’t know her. Doesn’t want to know her either. But he knows she’s seen the curtain twitch so he’s stuck with it. Stuck with what-ever she wants. He unlocks the door and opens it,

“Help you?”

“Mr Graham? I’m looking for your son, mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Inside, the trailer is both more cramped and tidier than she’d expected. William Graham Senior is like an older version of the Will she knew five, nearly six years ago. Plaid, flannel, jeans, buffalo check, comfortable, practical, outdoor clothes. Looks like junior imprinted on dad in multiple ways.

“Coffee? Or I got bottled water.”

She raises an eyebrow so he says,

“You can’t drink the stuff out of the tap. Kill you slow and painful.”

“Coffee. Thanks. With cream if you have it.”

He doesn’t reply and she admits she has to dial back some judgement and perceptions about the older man when he starts a fresh pot on the stove top.

“Columbian. Will sends them. Sent them.”

“I should tell you Mr Graham, I’m a journalist.”

He looks at her somewhat sardonically, god he’s so like Will Graham.

“No shit. You don’t say. I’d never have known. Tabloids?”

“TattleCrime.”

He turns and looks at her then,

“Freddie Lounds? I should have known from the hair. I’ve never seen a picture, but Will described you. At his trial? The hat? He said you looked like some mobster’s moll.”  
She’s surprised into a laugh,

“You’re close then?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Here. Drink it whilst it’s hot. I’m answering nothing until I’ve had at least one cup so save your breath.”

“I’m sorry it’s so early. I wasn’t sure what time you’d leave for work.”

He doesn’t answer for a bit. Just takes several long mouthfuls from his own mug. She does the same, mirroring his actions, easing him into confidences. She hopes.  
“Nice try Ms Lounds. Your car the little jeep thing? I seen it round plenty. They teach you this in journalism school? Catch the subject off guard, too early, a little late, when their mind is on something else?”

He takes another few sips,

“You gonna drink that?”

..................................

In the morning after the storm Hannibal looks down at the man from the boat. The father. He’s tied, but not gagged. And he hasn’t given anything up yet. Hannibal looks up at Bedelia.

“What drugs do you have with you? Anything for our friend here, to ease his mind whilst he spills his secrets?”

“I’m telling you nothing.”

Hannibal casually back-hands the man across the mouth.

“Bedelia?”

The expression on her face is more reserved than the one she wore when he stabbed Sogliato with an ice-pick. Or broke that fool’s neck. She clears her throat.

“We have plenty of suitable drugs. Will you bring him back to the house?”

He nods and then grunts as he bends and hoists the man over his shoulder, as limp and unwieldy as a sack of potatoes. Hannibal is relieved that his perceived bulk is mainly wet weather gear and the layers of clothes he’s wearing underneath. He’s not as heavy as he looks. It’s something of a relief. He’s not feeling especially tender, but it would be infuriating to damage himself on this pig.

In the small building there is evidence that someone, Chiyoh probably, has cleaned up. The blood from the brother that Bedelia shot is mostly wiped away though Hannibal thinks it will need bleach later. To be sure.

He swings the man down into a chair and then pulls zip ties from his hip pocket and secures the man’s arms and legs. He looks up at Bedelia,

“Will you see if Chiyoh is here?”

Bedelia checks both the small rooms,

“Empty. She must be at the Lighthouse. Shall I fetch her?”

He nods and she simply turns and says nothing further before she’s gone. Crossing the threshold between observer and participant, participant and observer. As she so often does. And whereas with Will he finds the vacillation fascinating, with Bedelia it is becoming simply tedious. She is becoming dangerously boring.

Though the cctv is interesting. And will have to wait.

...............................................................

Jack looks across the vast field of his desk at Molly Graham. He tries, and fails, again, to grasp what she’s saying. The words are like a foreign language to him. One that he never learned, didn’t want to learn in the past, and isn’t sure he’s capable of now.

“I’ve got it here. With me. Now. Do you want it?”

He’s at a loss. When he’d talked to Will about that phone call Will hadn’t held back. He’d told Jack he was conflicted. He’d straight out and told him. ‘Because he was my friend. And I wanted to run away with him.’ And then pissed off to Europe on that boat. Jack’s distracted for a moment. What happened to the boat?

Jack sighs. Again. All his life is made up of sighing. When did it get to be like this? After Bella? Or Before? And he knows he’s still a little compromised by what happened there. Those extra weeks. Those long and too short extra weeks. Which he hadn’t even focussed on at first. And then he was recovering. Like Molly and Will. He looks at her properly, and she’s still waiting for an answer. Answers, in the plural. None of which he has. None that she’ll want to hear.

“Does it make any difference?”

She looks at him in shock,

“Mrs Graham, Molly. I’m sorry. I know some of this is news to you. I guess Will wasn’t as forthcoming as you thought. Probably not as much as he hoped. He always made these leaps and then hoped everyone else could keep up.”

“And no one did?”

“I used to get him to take me through it. Bit by bit. One step at a time. What he could see.”

“When he looked at the evidence?”

“When he became the killer.”

He stops then and sees that she’s struggling with that bit of information. She thinks of when Will protested that he didn’t have a criminal mind. 

“He wasn’t like them though. He just had a good imagination.”

“What he had, I’m sorry, what he has, is pure empathy.”

He has a horrible flash back. Him and Hannibal, talking about Will Graham, not long after Jack had first met him. Molly just stares at him,

“And that made him useful.”

“It made him useful. And it made him different.”

She makes a small wounded sound,

“He was a sweet man. Loving. Kind. You should have seen him. You did see him. He was happy with us. He was.”

“I’m not trying to take that away from you Mrs Graham. I’m just saying that Will could bleed into other people in a way that no one else I ever met could. So, yes, it made him useful. But it also made him difficult. He didn’t always know where his own boundaries were, what was really him and what was him sliding into someone else’s psyche.”

“Or someone sliding into his?”

“It made it very hard for him to say no.”

She thinks then, of all the times she reached for him, spoke first, initiated, of all the times she was the assertive one and he the responsive one. Not passive, just receptive and responsive.

“You used that didn’t you?”

Bitterly Jack answers her,

“He was saving lives. He thought it was worth it. I did too. I’m not so sure now, if I’m honest with you. But he might still think so.”

.........................................

Cautiously Bedelia pushes open the door between the mudroom and the ground floor of the Lighthouse. There’s only Chiyoh, reading. Looking as collected as ever, no indication now that anything un-towards happened in the night.

“Where is Will?”

Chiyoh tips her chin up,

“Asleep I think. Last night tired him out.”

She looks at Bedelia,

“He is still uncertain about what he has seen here. Who he has seen. It seems your therapy has had some effect.”

Bedelia inclines her head,

“That was the intention. Hannibal would like your help. We’ve brought the father back. He was waiting at their boat. I think Hannibal has it in mind to sink it. Probably with the man and one of the brothers on board, I imagine that he means the one that was stabbed. The forecast is bad again for tomorrow. Not as bad. But enough for our needs.”

“What about the one that was shot?”

“I’m not sure. Something to disguise the effects before he too is put into the water.”

“Has Hannibal checked the tides?”

Bedelia shrugs,

“I think this is all expediency. Will you come?”

Chiyoh sets down her book,

“I think I should check on Will first. He is lucid enough now to know me. He may have some useful thoughts about what to do with the bodies.”  
Bedelia smiles and raises an eyebrow,

“Forensic counter measures at sea? I suppose. I’ll wait for you. I’d prefer not to disappoint Hannibal again.”

Chiyoh ducks upstairs and Bedelia can hear her footfalls. She returns quickly.

“As I thought. Asleep. Let us go. Did the man say who sent him?”

Bedelia smiles,

“Not yet.”

.........................................................

Will is reluctant to open his eyes and face things. God. The memories of the previous night flood back. It really was Chiyoh. Not Abigail. And if it was Chiyoh then what else has he got wrong?

He’s not dead. Even if he feels he’s half way there, or that he was. Like Orpheus not looking back, making his way steadily out from the underworld. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. If he doesn’t look back then he can save everyone. Molly. He can save Molly. Only he mustn’t look back. She said so. Didn’t she? He’s saving lives again.

Jack? Jack must wonder where the hell he is. Jimmy? Maybe even Zeller. And for how long? Maybe they think he’s dead. Doing what a cliff couldn’t. he feels a pang across his head and the light, he’d rather blame it on the light, makes everything throb.

It was Chiyoh. But that means the woman with gold hair, not his Molly. Not Molly at all. He casts around. If it’s not Molly then the only woman he knows with blonde hair is Bedelia Du Maurier, and all right, sure, all right, there’s no love lost between them but surely, she wouldn’t fucking kidnap him? Because that’s what this looks like. Someone kidnapped him. Chiyoh and Bedelia? That seems unlikely. Though they probably met in Florence? Didn’t they?

His head isn’t quite right. He can’t make the leaps like he usually can, thoughts are clod-hoppered and hobbled. Nothing sparks, synapses are damp squibs. He’s all fragments and shards and broken pieces. He needs glue.

“Hannibal.”

He whimpers. Takes a deep and steadying breath.

Then he sits up and looks around. The room is much as it’s been for as long as he’s been aware of it. Round, white, rough hewn. A desk, an upright chair, an armchair. A small chest of drawers. No pictures. Just a plain ascetic hermitage. 

In the drawers he finds some clothes in his size. Nothing fancy and he’s reminded of the soft button downs and chinos he used to wear. In the bottom drawer is a dark grey thick knitted jumper. Plain but with turned cuffs and neck. There’s a name for these. From some English island. He’d looked them up once thinking maybe to get one for his father and had been shocked at the prices. Even simple things can be costly.

There are no shoes but he thinks he might find something somewhere downstairs. 

As he descends the treads he’s a little careful, stepping carefully. The room below his is more or less as he remembers. He steps in and looks around. It’s the spinet that does it. No one else he has ever met would take such a stupid risk as to bring such an instrument to a tower. Something traceable. Probably. For fuck’s sake.  
He sits on the bench in front of it and presses one key, the note plucked from the air. He understands the physics behind it. He understands the immediacy and unequivocal nature of the sound. Different to a piano. 

And so like Hannibal. Which means he is either here or is expected.

Will drops his head into his hands and allows himself the luxury of crying. Probably from relief. Though he doesn’t examine the feeling too closely, just lets it rip through him like an unexpected tide, coming in fast, covering everything.

......................................................

Jack pushes the report back towards Sean and looks at Brian and Jimmy. They stand tensely round the tables in the lab. No one leaning, but all looking as though they crave the support.

“So, Bedelia Du Maurier has been gone since before the Red Dragon?”

Sean nods,

“Just before. Maybe a week.”

“After we know Will went to see her?”

“After Will went to see her.”

“Do we think he warned her?”

Brian frowns,

“Can we call it a warning? More like a threat. If their history is anything to go by.”

Jack rubs his face.

“Fuck.”

.............................................................

Will makes it out of the outer door and follows one of the three paths away from the building that takes him up to higher ground. He struggles a little, his fitness still in considerable doubt. But at the top of the incline he looks back. And breathes.

A Lighthouse. A goddam lighthouse. And outbuildings. And birds. A lot of gulls, wheeling and screaming at him. God he’d like to scream along with them.

He can see where one of the other paths goes. And he can see what look likes two figures. Lying prone. The faces are covered though. By black birds. Carrion eaters. Pecking and pecking and pecking. He looks away. Maybe these are the people who shot Chiyoh last night? Because it’s all coming back to him now. Or maybe not all. But some pretty pertinent parts of the story.

He pushes himself down the hill and along the path to one of the buildings. The one with the grass most flattened and inhibited by use. At the door he pauses. This is it then. All in?

He pushes it open.

Chiyoh. And yeah, damn, Bedelia. And, and most importantly. So importantly he can hardly breathe.

“Hannibal.”

The three of them turn and see Will in the doorway, then he sees what they were crowded round. Some man. Still alive if the blood bubbling at his mouth is any indication. But wracked. He sighs, if you play, you pay. Still true. He didn’t really think it would be different.

He makes a small sound,

“Don’t let me interrupt. I’m sure it’s important. I’ll just be outside.”

He closes the door and can’t decide if he’s glad or sorry that no one comes after him. Must be important then. 

He retraces his footsteps to the lighthouse and then takes the third path, the one that goes down a slow slope. It’ll be a bitch to come back up it. But he’ll face that when he has to.

Down at the bottom the path turns onto a concrete apron and a small landing jetty, there’s a boat tied up there. An island. Not just a lighthouse. An island.

So, that’s how it is.

He heads for the boat, examines the knots keeping it safe against storms like last night. He re-ties two of the lines.

And then sits. And waits. He’s good at waiting too. Always has been. Hannibal will come when he’s ready. He always has.

....................................

Hannibal finds Will sitting on a bollard down at the jetty. He has clearly re-tied some of the lines securing the small boat used for runs to and from the mainland but nothing else seems changed.

“Will?”

He stands close but not too close, it’s hard to know which way Will will lean now. It nearly always has been. It’s not just Hannibal’s compassion that is inconvenient.

“I was thinking. That’s all. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Will takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. He does it again. From his pocket he pulls a small stone and turns it over in his hand.

“I told Jack you’d be the best bait. And I meant it. Really.”

He pauses. But so does Hannibal. This doesn’t feel done just yet. Will sighs,

“I had this dream. A long time ago now. About Abigail, teaching her to fish rather than hunt.”

“Becoming a new father to her?”

“Yeah. Like that. I don’t think I ever did take her. It’s hard to separate things out now. What was real. What wasn’t; some of it is like a dream.”

He doesn’t mention the drugging or the encephalitis though maybe it’s thick in the air between them both. Will stops fiddling with the stone and looks out again over the glassy stillness of the sea, different to an extreme from such a short time ago.

“I told her you name the bait after something you love. If they love you back you catch the fish.”

Hannibal doesn’t speak. He watches Will make up his mind. Make up his mind? A phrase that fits for Will if ever anything did. Will glances back towards Hannibal, but doesn’t allow himself the intimacy of eye contact, not yet,

“I told Jack I was a good fisherman Hannibal. Was I right?”


	8. Chapter 8

Molly isn’t really paying attention to the meal she’s working on. Sure, the oil has covered the base of the heavy bottomed pot, one of Will’s, and she’s managed the onions though her face is trailed by tear stains. The carrots she’s scraping have ended up more scrape than carrot. And the celery. She doesn’t even like celery. But Will did. Softened. In soup or stew. Celeriac too, ash baked with a salt crust or something. He was such an odd mix of food styles, old fashioned Louisiana, plain home-style Americana, and then some unusual specialities. She’d hardly thought about it before. Just glad that here was a man willing to take his turn in the kitchen. And even when the meal took more pans than she had or he did, or he went off to fetch some odd thing that normal people just never carry in their own pantries she’d never thought to ask. So it’s yet another thing she doesn’t know.

If anyone asked she’d admit she’s a little embarrassed by how much she didn’t know then, and how much is unspooling now. And damn and fuck and shit, as it unspools she unravels. She can’t though. She mustn’t. Wally wont manage without her. Actually that’s kind of terrifying, that he might manage without her. It was one of the things she loved about Will, that he kind of clung. She liked it, being his anchor, his paddle in a tight spot. She’d laugh and say she was the paddle for when he was up shit creek. And he’d always smile a soft sweet smile full of their memories.

When she’s done with the celery she lets them sit and sweat and soften in the pan with the carrots and onions, over a low heat. She leans hard against the countertop. She thinks about the bottle of wine in the fridge. The bottle of whisky in the larder. She holds onto the scarred maple of the wooden surface and wants to carve all her feelings into it. Somewhere. Somewhere someone should memorialise all this pain. At least with Wally senior there’s a cemetery stone she can go and rail at. 

She stands and thinks about the next stage of the meal, some garlic, add the minced beef, let it cook, throw in that wine, it’ll cook off the alcohol wont it? Wait until just before the end and add some herbs. Maybe cook some potatoes too. One step at a time. One fucking step at a time. Fuck the stages of grief. Fuck them. Fuck them all. This isn’t grief. (It is.) This is horror (it is), and pain (it is) and fury (it really is). She looks at the knife in her hand and feels its wildness. Fuck.

...............................................

The oxygen in Frederick Chilton’s chamber hisses like the eternal snake in the garden. Jack Crawford takes the chair from the side of the room and sits down beside the erstwhile head of the BSHCI. Will really loathed him. And probably pushed Abel Gideon into his murderous rampage. Even if Lass was all Hannibal. God. So similar in their pathologies now he can look at it more clearly. Identically different? Someone said that. He certainly repeated it, several times over. It had the ring of a clever truth. Too much so he thinks now. Him trying to be clever. Clever in the face of a cleverness he never understood. Never. Didn’t want to. Doesn’t want to still. Will had been his friend. Did he feel so betrayed by Jack? Quid pro quo Will? Really?

There’s a noise from the chamber and Jack sees that Frederick’s eyes are swivelled towards him,

“Aren’t I the popular one then? I’ve only got to breathe the name Hannibal Lecter or even Will Graham and everyone pricks up their ears and comes a hopping along. Little white tail flashing a warning. First Alana Bloom and now you Jack. What’s it all about Agent Crawford?”

He puts an emphasis on the word ‘agent’ as if he knows there’s likely to be some doubt about that in the future. Jack reckons that’s just his own paranoia getting the better of him. What could Frederick possibly know?

“I hear you’ve got people looking Frederick.”

“It seems to me it makes sense to know where to stay away from Jack.”

“So you’re not looking for them.”

“If I’m looking for them it’s to make sure I’m never on the same continent as them, at least, for preference.”

Jack thinks about that for a minute or so, just watches Frederick watching him. For all that Frederick could be a fucking self-obsessed jerk just occasionally he got it. He saw things, he usually got the interpretation wrong, but he did see. Sometimes you just had to peel a few layers off to get to an actually useful bit of observation. 

“And where do you think they are? Together?”

“You know what the family say, your people were there?”

Jack looks at him some more, all right, that was smart.

“You’ve got someone watching? Of course you have.”

“I knew the Verger-Blooms were there even before they did. And your guy. He was competent by the way. But the Lecter family don’t know anything.”

“What about Will’s family?”

Frederick narrows his eyes,

“Which one?”

Jack opens his mouth and the closes it again. Frowns. And then sighs,

“Ok Dr Chilton. Tell me all about it.”

“Mr Graham isn’t quite as alone in the world as we thought. You’ve talked to his ‘wife I imagine?’”

Jack frowns at the air quotes Fredrick implies but he doesn’t comment,

“Haven’t you Jack? Or she’s talked to you. If I remember anything from the trial it’s her feistyness. Will Graham chose a good person to stand behind. And Hannibal has always had an affinity for a feisty tongue. I wonder if he fancies a lick of hers.”

“Mrs Graham hasn’t heard anything Frederick. She’s as anxious as the rest of us.”

If Frederick Chilton had any eyebrows left to raise he’d be doing so now.

“Anxious that he’ll come after her? Her and the kid. Hannibal doesn’t share Jack, we both know that. Why do you think he killed Beverly Katz?”

“He killed Agent Katz because she got too close.”

Frederick stares at him hard.

“She did. Exactly so. But not to the Copycat. She got too close to Will. She and Will Graham? I expect of anyone in your team it was Beverly Katz that he was closest too. I heard them talking. A lot. That mural killer case? When she was looking into Will Graham’s case on the side? They were close Jack. I can’t say how close. But close. Friendly. Hannibal would have hated that. He did hate that. I mentioned it to him, her visits. They even came together once. I imagine he was checking it out, checking her out, just how close they were. Will worried about it afterwards. Told her to be careful. I’m sorry about that now of course. But we were all busy having the wool pulled over our eyes and eating the sacrificial lamb on our plates. Except I wasn’t by then. Was I?”

Jack concedes the point. He and Frederick have had the worst kind of entangled relationship over the last six years, and it doesn’t make him like him now though he hopes the sympathy is real. He suspects it comes off as pity and he wonders if Frederick despises him for it. He would, if their situations were reversed.

Frederick makes an odd sound in his throat and Jack has to lean slightly closer to hear,

“So she’s anxious about Lecter? That’s what you think Jack? I think she knows he’s won. At least where Will is concerned. Don’t you? I think she desperately hoped that Will was taken by someone, anyone, against his own volition and that he’s staying away just to keep her safe. Or at least in part to keep her safe. It’s a fairy tale but it’s one I’d choose to believe. If I was in her situation. But it wasn’t her I meant. Freddie found Will Graham Snr. Will’s dad? Yeah. He’s still alive. You should talk to him.”

Jack looks at him, and when did Frederick Chilton ever get a jump on him. Fuck. And fuck Freddie Lounds too. He hates that Frederick actually smirks.

...............................  


Hannnibal looks down at Will half standing, half sitting a little below him against the backdrop of the jetty and the boat and the North Atlantic.

“Who was the man?”

“He and two others were looking for me.”

Will kicks at the concrete facings and glances up and away.

“Did someone send him?”

“Yes and no.”

“A reward?”

“Yes.”

“Verger-Blooms?”

“Perhaps surprisingly, no.”

Will does look at him then though it’s a quick survey, as though looking for any longer is somehow too much for him.

“No? But not Jack?”

“Come up to the lighthouse Will. I’m sure you have some questions.”

He watches Will and then holds a hand out to help pull him fully to his feet. It reminds him of another time when they reached for one another. Will looks at his hand and Hannibal thinks he might have to drop it, the moment already stretched when Will abruptly reaches out. Grasps his hand and lets himself be hauled upright.

“Shit. I’m still exhausted. You going to help me up the steps or are you..?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence and looks conflicted when he asks,

“Are you all right. I mean. How long is it? What happened?”

“I am almost recovered. And it’s been almost a year.”

Will stares at him,

“A year? A year, how can it be a year? How long was I in hospital? How long have I been here?”

“You were in hospital for seven months, and you’ve been here more than four. It’s almost Christmas. You’ve missed Thanksgiving I’m afraid.”

Will almost laughs, then he looks down at their hands, still joined. He glances up again, and Hannibal can’t quite assess the look in his eyes, but there’s warmth in his voice when he says,

“Are you sure?”  
..............................................

“Agent Crawford, how nice to see you again. It’s been a while.”

“Cut the crap Freddie. And you know what, what the fuck, where the hell have you been?”

Freddie half surprises Jack by laughing, but then she always did have a warped sense of humour.

“Worried about me Agent Crawford. I’m touched. But do you honestly think I’d wave a red flag and shout ‘ here, over here’ until I knew what the deal was? Come on Jack, I’ll admit I’m brazen, but I’m not stupid. Thanks very much.”

Jack almost nods,

“Go on.”

“Look, I came to you. No need for the shit brick-house thing.”

He doesn’t say anything and Freddie actually has the gall to roll her eyes at him. She smiles. It’s as empty of feeling as ever, except, maybe..

“All right then. Thank you Ms Lounds for coming in. How can I help you?”

She laughs again,

“Didn’t a ghost just walk over your grave then Jack? Didn’t it? Don’t you feel haunted here?”

“Freddie.” He says, and there’s the hint of a warning in his voice, and he can’t stop his follow up,

“If you’re withholding information in a federal investigation..”

He doesn’t finish the threat but she waves a hand at him,

“We got off on the wrong foot. I’ll try that entrance again shall I? I have got some information for you. And just for once, yeah don’t look like that. I’m willing to go sharesies. Though I know for a fact that at the moment you’ve got sweet f-a.”

He doesn’t reply, but when there’s a knock on the door he’s ready to have a good shout at whoever it is. Brian pokes his head round the door and looks worried to see the apoplectic look perched on Jack’s face, just hanging there, but he understands it further when he looks round the edge of the door.

“Freddie? What the fuck?”

She twitches a sly and delighted smile,

“Hey Dr Zeller. How’s it hanging?”

Jack makes a weary motion with his hand,

“Get Jimmy and Sean. Who the fuck knows what this is, but it’ll save me having to repeat whatever Freddie has to say.”

Brian looks between the two of them. How could he have possibly believed this could get no worse? Idiot. It always has before. 

......................

The next few days Molly goes through the motions. She calls her parents. Wally goes to school. The dogs do their usual thing. She thinks about Randy, the most recent acquisition, the joke she and Will had shared on the phone. She thinks about that some more. Damn. She realises the dogs have crept into her mind because they’re barking fit to burst outside. A cold finger of fear slips under her collar and rubs at the hairs on the back of her neck. She dries her hands off and then reaches for the handgun stored under the sink. No point in being stupid about it.

Outside the door the dogs are still creating, but they’re running around some guy standing in the yard, throwing balls and sticks. She watches for a moment, hope and fear caught in her throat. But it’s not him of course.

“Mister? Who you looking for? This is private property.”

He turns at the sound of her voice and she’s confused again, just a little. Shit.

“Ma’am? Molly, right? Yeah? I’m Will Graham Snr. I’m Will’s pa.”

She wonders if this is what they mean when the books say the heroine fainted clean away. It gets all dark and starry starry night at the edges of her vision. Her knees don’t feel right, more like they might bend the other way, like the back legs of a horse or dog, she feels all shaky, as though her blood got stuck somewhere on the way round her body and it got log-jammed there. 

She leans heavily on the rail by the porch, tries to get her breath, tries to remember how words work.

The white haired man looks at her,

“Guess that answers one of my questions then. I aint seen him for a bit. Heard from him of course. He look like me?”

Molly nods, words are coming back to her, too fast, like a flood,

“Why are you here Mr Graham? I don’t know anything.”

“You gonna ask me in. So we can talk. I guess you’re my daughter in law for what that’s worth.”

She looks at him again and can feel her last vestiges of hope draining away. Whatever he has come to say it’s not going to be good news. But then, since Will sent her that text, or at least, since someone sent her that text it has been one lot of bad news after another. Or no news. She used to think no news was good news, like the old saw. Now she knows it’s just bad news dressed up nicer.

“Come in. You might as well. I’ve got nothing for you either.”

He looks at her as he gets closer, looks into her face and she looks right back. He sighs,

“Yeah? I can see that. He always did like strays.”

..............................................

By the time they reach the top of the path Will is leaning heavily against Hannibal.

“I’m sorry.” He takes several shallow breaths, trying hard to fill his lungs, he gulps in some air, “I’m so unfit. Fuck. What the hell have I been doing all this time?”

“Mostly recovering. Come. You probably need to rest. I’d rather not carry you, for all that you’ve lost weight. Can you manage?”

“Let me sit for a minute or two.”

Together they lower him to the ground. The grass is still sodden but Will can’t really care about that, or at least he chooses not to. Not the first time he’s been caught outside and half drowned in a rainstorm, or its aftermath. If anything he’d have thought Hannibal was more bothered by it but he drops down beside him.

They sit quiet and Will regards Hannibal from the corner of his eyes. Hannibal smiles very slightly,

“Still not fond of eye contact Will?”

And Will laughs. 

“Sure. And my thoughts still aren’t very tasty either. You’ll feed me anyway.”

Hannibal looks at him in surprise.

“Are you hungry?”

Will finally looks at him properly.

“I could eat.”

.................................

Jack looks between Molly Graham and Will Graham Snr. This isn’t how he’d thought this week would pan out. Seriously? Frederick and Freddie had been more than enough to cope with. Plus fucking Kade Prurnell. And doesn’t he have a vicious thought about her for a moment, and why the fuck couldn’t Hannibal go after her sorry bureaucratic arse. It’s below him to think like this. He knows it. He does. But all the same. She is a shit.

“Mr Graham, and also, Mrs Graham.”

He stops. He has so little idea of where to go from here. He’s got nothing for them, nothing more than before.

Will Graham Snr holds up a hand,

“I’ve got nothing much for you Agent Crawford , just a letter from Will. Before all this. The last thing he sent me. Molly’s seen it. Thought we should show you too.”  


“Well. I appreciate you coming in to do it. Thanks for that.”

Will Graham Snr eyes him like a fisherman that loathes the catch he’s just struggled against. Half the weight and none of the good eating he’d hoped for. He brings the letter up out of an inside jacket pocket. It’s identical to one that Will used to wear, down to the colour and everything. Then the dad looks very like his boy in every way. Not just the clothes. He’s got some of the same mannerisms too. Jack faintly wonders if he can do the whole empathy thing as well.

“You’re looking at me the way you used to look at Will, aren’t you? Kind of calculating.”

Jack nods, somehow, with this guy it feels better to front up.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“He was useful. I get that. But to be useful means someone is using you. It aint just an abstract thing.”

He glances at Molly and Jack realises that she thinks she used Will too. As a husband, as a defence against the loneliness, as a comfort, as someone understanding and kind. Like he was with that Madchen woman, Peter? Peter Bernadone? Something? Reba McClane, even the Hobbs girl. Molly was wounded and he looked out for her. Jack had thought Molly had kind of gathered Will up, but maybe it was the other way round, Will just collected her, as he did with all kinds of broken things.  


Jack has a startled moment of clarity. He remembers Will just sitting, in this same office, waiting for him to talk. Waiting and listening. So, damn. Including him. Will collected him. What had Hannibal said to him over dinner that time? Yet another bit of misdirection. Will wasn’t the broken pony. Jack was. Yet another broken pony in Will’s stable. Though that makes him wonder about Hannibal? Was he waiting to be collected too?

He shies away from that thought and takes the letter from Will Graham Snr’s hand and scans it. He reads it again, just to be sure he’s got the drift.

“You think he knew something like this would happen?”

“I think he thought he couldn’t save himself. Maybe toying with the idea that he had kinda set himself up to die. He was saying goodbye.”

“And if he’s not dead?”

Will Snr. looks at Molly again and then Jack.

“I think he’s still saying goodbye.”

Molly sighs,

“We both do.”

.................................

 

“He still intrigues you doesn’t he?”

Hannibal doesn’t look at Bedelia and carries on making their drinks,

“He always has.”

She waits to see if he wants to say anything more, and then decides it’s easier to cut to the chase,

“You want to know the tenor of our conversations?”

Hannibal does look at her then,

“Is that a reference to the way I described Will and my interactions?”

“What do you think Hannibal? You had a relationship predicated on an inadequate understanding or experience of friendship. You attempted to suggest options to him at best and outright violently coerce him at worst. I can see the appeal. Not just that he could climb your walls and make himself comfortable within, but that he kept at it. Literally and figuratively. It might have been therapeutic for one or both of you, but I’d hardly dignify it as therapy, or indeed friendship.”

“That may be so. But I would rather he was here of his own volition. His own willingness.”

“Here? Or with you?”

He hands her a mug of coffee and then pushes the cream towards her. She adds some and stirs it. Sets the teaspoon down on a saucer. Always with the carefulness over food.

“The first is moot. There had to be a way to rescue him, and this was the least worst option. And frankly, the care in that hospital was appalling.”

“Because they didn’t notice he was gone? Or because of the secondary infection? Or the plastic surgery?”

Hannibal takes a mouthful of his own drink, not coffee, a tisane of herbs he has gathered from the island.

“All of those. But the second holds true. The goal of therapy is to know ourselves as we are, not as we would like to be, not to deceive ourselves. If Will is to fully integrate with himself this has to be a choice he makes, knowingly, not one that is forced upon him.”

She takes a deep breath,

“I see that. Very well. You once said that he saw his mentality as something that was grotesque but useful. I have been encouraging him to remember that his view of his own mentality is a construct, that his memories are too. Something aided and abetted by society. Sometimes narrated and edited by others.”

“Self acceptance then?”

“Self-awareness, the knowledge you speak of, at least in the first instance.”

“You think he is unaware?”

“I think he is woefully unaware of his own unparalleled uniqueness. Except in the negative, his deficits, as delineated in society. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, but I am surprised that you have said it.”

Bedelia shrugs,

“I don’t have to like him to find his mind interesting. I find you interesting after all.”

Hannibal raises his cup to her in a mock toast and she shrugs again and mirrors the gesture.

“Brave Bedelia. You should be more careful.”

“Oh I am. Hannibal. You want Will here, with you. I know that. I knew that the moment you arrived at my home soaked in blood and rain. I knew that from the first time you mentioned him in a session. It’s why I withdrew. You played with me, and I killed that patient you referred. You played with Will and he killed that patient you sent after him. He at least sent someone to kill you. I had no such inclination then. And it’s still true.”

Hannibal eyes her,

“I thought you considered that we had both had our ‘Will Grahams’.”

“I did. Until I realised the man he killed had been under your care.”

“And yet you came? It wasn’t coercion Bedelia. Either time.”

She snorts a small laugh,

“It wasn’t quite participation either. And it was, and is, fascinating.”

“The new book and tour then?”

She tips her head slightly, she wonders if she is gradually persuading him to it.

“I’ve thought perhaps with a five year moratorium?”

He looks as though he might be considering it.

......................................................

Will lies on his bed and looks up at the wooden ceiling overhead. Slats. They must be the floor of the room above. He stretches. The light in the room is muted, probably the day stretching towards evening. Though if it’s nearly Christmas? He considers, the light level should be able to tell him where they are, or at least what latitude. If he knew the time.

He wonders if Hannibal would tell him if he asked. The time. Or the place.

From below he can just hear the murmur of voices, probably down in the room on the ground floor. One of the voices is Hannibal’s. 

If he’s honest with himself he’s trying not to be furious that Bedelia is here. He recognises the emotion for what it is. Just jealousy. He’d felt it when Jack had told him that she was almost certainly with Hannibal in Florence. If anything it had been that news that had tipped him over into wanting to find Hannibal. Wanting to re-claim him.

He lets his eyes wander the room. He can find a deep appeal in its simplicity and given the room below and what Chiyoh said that they’ve brought then this is a deliberate attempt to provide Will with something he will find.. he searches for a word, restful? Appropriate? A sanctuary. There is something about it that is reminiscent of Wolf Trap?

He thinks back to the conversation with Hannibal about his house, when he was first learning about trust, and hope, and the maybe-ness of an emerging and tentative friendship not based solely on his utility. How his house had looked like a light on the sea, a beacon of safety, how the only time he ever really felt secure was when he looked at it. 

A surge of warm affection almost chokes him. A lighthouse. Salvation for those boats and sea-farers in peril on the sea? An actual fucking lighthouse. He puts his arm over his eyes, tries to hold back on the sob that breaks free from his throat. He’s spent so long holding it all back.


	9. Chapter 9

He knows he feels just slightly wrong, his edges not as sharply defined as he might need. Will holds a hand up in front of his face and just for a flash he’s in a snow covered yard with blood spooling down his wrist and dripping. He feels that urge, no that’s wrong, not an urge, a need, an undeniable need to offer that scream, to make a sacrifice. Filled with a hard edged hope and hate.

Will shudders and his hand is clean again, just a small bruise on the back where the IV port had entered his skin. He could imagine it spreading, his whole self, his whole life a bruise purpling and pulsing along with his heart.

He tries again. Tries to be present, tries to be here. At the light.

He shakes himself, he needs to be more available if he’s to get through the evening, needs more of his fragments to hold together in something resembling a whole. Or what gives a good enough impression of it. In this company at least.

He pushes on the door and joins the small group at the table. Chiyoh dishes up noodles and tonkatsu, he could weep at the normality of it. He’s grateful that she makes no comment as she fills an extra bowl. And as he slides into the spare seat on the fourth side he takes note that Bedelia looks both wary and in some measure, perhaps, relieved.

He’s not quite sure where that’s from. Or what that’s about. There’s some kind of bargaining and forgiving going on here. Maybe he’s caught up in it. Maybe. But whatever interactions they have had here words have teeth and their most recent encounter, before all this, was a difficult one.

He feels a flush of shame at the unguarded discussions he may have had with her, especially if he thought she was Molly. The misery sloshes around him, half filling his belly, and it rebels for a moment against the warm soup. He manages not to retch. But it’s close. And the hot sour of anger that follow is one that he knows he’d better not chase or he’ll get lost in it. Somewhere, somewhere a stag with burning antlers and feathers on fire shakes its head. He looks up sharply.

“What have you done with the men?”

Hannibal and Chiyoh exchange a look and Will follows the exchange,

“You should tell me. If you plan on dumping the bodies we’ll need to get the tidal drift and decomposition right.”

They all hear it. ‘We.’ And he shrugs a little as he empties his bowl of soup and looks hopefully back towards the stove where the pan rests.

“I’m here aren’t I?”

There are no replies to that and too many. No one says anything. Chiyoh gets up and re-fills his bowl and then offers seconds to the other two at the table. Will suspects that there are ghosts crowding round the edges of the room attracted by the meal. He shakes his head again. It wasn’t Abigail, it was Chiyoh. It hasn’t been Abigail for a long while.

He eats some further mouthfuls of soup, tips his spoon against the edge,

“This is good. Thank you. I’d forgotten how much I like noodles in soup.”

He knows it sounds a little lame and honestly? He’s surprised at himself, small-talk? Really? Maybe Molly rubbed off on him more than he realised. She always liked these little bits of social massage to ease people along, and he let himself fall into that. He could have done with someone teaching him these little tricks and knacks forty years ago. For a while he had wondered if it was better later than never, but right now? Right now he just thinks it is the aural equivalent of wallpaper.

Something that occupies space and nothing more, something for the ear to glide over. A sop. A white lie.

He hitches on the matter of space. And remembers that very first ambush by Hannibal in Jack’s office. No space in the bone arena of his skull for the things he loved. Maybe that’s what small-talk does, fills up those empty spaces so the other things cant crowd in and occupy, rattle his thoughts and his heart around. All that cacophony. All that chase.

He realises Hannibal has asked him a question, knows he isn’t paying proper attention, and he really should, he really should. He is in a room of lions. A pride. And where the hell does he fit in it?

He looks in Hannibal’s direction more deliberately,

“Sorry.”

“Lost in thought Will?”

Will pauses, everything is taking him back right now, everything, everything. To the beginning. His thoughts swerve drastically aside, he feels giddy, slowly he replies,

“No, not lost. Not now. What were you asking?”

Patiently Hannibal repeats,

“I was asking what you thought we should do?”

There’s genuine curiosity in his tone and Will can’t help but smile to himself over it; here they are and the Chesapeake Ripper wants to go un-noticed. Well, not the Ripper, some new incarnation of Hannibal’s killing joke. It sobers him a little. Shit. Yes, along with the tired-ness and spaced-out-ness he also feels a little giddy, he feels a little drunk. Why does he feel drunk?

“We should look at the tide tables. I guess you’ve got charts as well? Are the bodies exposed now?”

He sees Chiyoh nod and he nods back at her, his head lolls just a little,

“That’s good, you can tell if there have been fluctuations in weather conditions in a cadaver, it’s important not to bring them indoors at any point, just leave them laying out so the decay is a straight progression. What are the wounds like? Stab? Shot? What about the final guy?”

Faintly Bedelia says,

“He bled out. From various lacerations.”

Will makes a face,

“So we have to disguise them. We’ll need to expose them somewhere where the birds and crustacea can get at them. Where are they now?”

“On one of the summits. In a small depression.”

Will wants to make a joke, but he knows it’s not right, not now, not for this, fuck, where is his head?

“All right. But we need to wedge them in the rocks somewhere, where they won’t get washed away just yet even if the weather gets worse. Did you find the boat?”

Hannibal nods,

“And did you deal with the transponder?”

Hannibal nods towards Chiyoh. And she replies,

“You should look at it tomorrow.”

Will leans forwards over the table towards her,

“Sure. They could easily have decided to shelter here for a bit after that storm, transponder gets knocked out, navigation system fries, they’d have to wait it out, wait for a clear run. What’s the forecast?”

“It is poor. For the next few nights. They had food on board. And clothing.”

“And has the coastguard radioed? If they’re local some-one will have noticed. You’re in touch, right?”

“Certainly..”

Hannibal pauses, 

“He knows me as Philip Pemptos.”

Will looks at him and then at the two women, and then laughs,

“And you didn’t stop him. Fuck. You’ve got some nerve. It’s better than Roman Fell I guess. But honestly? Aren’t you worried Jack will pick it up?”

Bedelia raises an eyebrow and Will rolls his eyes at her,

“Tell me you’re not Polycratia?”

She shakes her head,

“There has been no need for an alias. I am here only temporarily. But the query remains?”

Will smiles a little,

“Philip the Fifth of Macedon. For a while at least he was an ally of the Generals Hamilcar and Hannibal Barca.”

He laughs again and this time Hannibal joins in, rather delighted.

.........................................................

Molly opens the door and walks away from it straight into the living room and through there into the kitchen. She opens the fridge door and gets out the half full bottle of white wine that she had managed to resist before.

At the door Alana Bloom has a choice, either to follow Molly or to go back to the car and her driver. And away. She follows.

Molly holds the bottle up indicating a second glass sitting on the counter top, she’s already made a start on her own. Alana pauses and then nods. Whatever the wine is it can’t be any more sour than the taste already in her mouth.

“You have to find a way to live more than half a life.”

The words are out of her mouth even before she thinks, and she knows she sounds condescending. Molly looks like she doesn’t really care. Not anymore. Which probably means she really does.

“Well thanks. Anything else to suggest from your bottomless well of half-assed attempts at comfort and advice?”

Alana blinks and accepts the glass from her, she takes a tentative sip, the wine is as bad as she feared. But she’ll drink it.

“I’m sorry. That was a bad beginning.”

Molly looks at her,

“So what? Beginning? Middle? Ending? It’s all a disaster. You used to be a psychiatrist didn’t you? Were you any good?”

Alana is about to say that she still is, still has the credentials, still has the practice, of a sort. But she understands what Molly is getting at. She thinks.

“I had some successes.”

They both wear the same ‘not enough’ look. Alana looks down into her glass. This was probably a mistake. She had thought maybe she should reach out, for the sake of the friendship she once wanted to have with Will. She knows she never really did. She did an awful lot of taking back then. And even when she thinks of Hannibal she knows in part that had come about because she had wanted to poke Will, to get him to wake up to what he was doing.

She had felt wounded. Wounded by everyone. Betrayed. And it was worse when she realised that she hadn’t even been at the heart of the matter, she was just an also ran. And the shame and humiliation of that still bites. 

She tries again, and at least this time she knows it’s more for her own sake than anyone else’s,

“Is there anything to be salvaged?”

Molly makes a small abbreviated sob,

"Jack Crawford talk to you? Freddie Lounds? Anyone? Everyone? Because everyone seemed to know way before me that I was the one who was blind here. All the way through. Right from the start.”

And Alana knows that feeling all too well.

“You weren’t blind. You just got the very best of Will.”

Molly looks at her, and there are tears on her face,

“Like with the dogs? He just rounded us up like his fucking strays?”

Alana nods,

“That’s fair. I’m sorry. Yes. I think that’s fair. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Molly leans towards her across the countertop and knocks the bottle over, she ignores it, ignores the white vinegary scent that suffuses the air, glares at Alana,

“You could at least fucking try!”

There is no salvage here, only the flotsam and jetsam of a wrecked life. Two.

................................................

Brian picks at his lunch. Beside him Sean pushes his plate to one side. Jimmy Price makes his way across the canteen and sits opposite them.

“All our discussions and decisions are made over some shit in this canteen.”

Brian blinks up at him,

“Jimmy?”

“I’m done. I’m out. I can’t take it anymore. I thought the trial was bad enough, and the fucking red dragon.”

He sneers and closes his eyes. Brian would almost like to reach out and lay a hand on Jimmy’s arm, but for all that they’re close it isn’t that kind of friendship, an elbow in the ribs yeah, over some joke, a friendly shoulder jostle, but not this kind of comfort. It should have been. It could have been. He should have fucking hugged his friend when Bev was killed. But they’d just tied themselves in knots in their own misery.

Jimmy had always got on well with Hannibal and he, he had a kind of hate/hate relationship with Will. All the way through, until, until that thing in the field after that kill by the cave bear guy. Tier? Tier. The one who turned out to have been a patient of Lecter’s. Maybe killed by him, because the alternative is that Will did it, beat the guy to death with his bare hands and Brian was conned right from there on in.

He thinks of the apology he offered. More than just to do with the false accusations, more than just Bev, but about everything. Every time he’d been a bit of a shit. Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to him that if he’d been less jealous they might just about have managed to get on. That so many things might have been different.

“Don’t go Jimmy. Please.”

Jimmy looks at his friend,

“Jack is going to about kill himself over this. I can’t. I know we joke about the drinking. But I can’t. I can’t. I have to stop. I’m sorry. I’m going to tell Jack tomorrow.”

The three of them sit at the table in the FBI canteen. Jimmy looks shattered by what he’s just said. Sean looks shocked but not surprised. Brian looks at his lunch, puts the fork that he’s been holding down on the plate. He sets his hands on either side, framing the plate, he doesn’t look up.

“Where will you go?”

“Some college. I don’t know. Somewhere else. Anywhere. I’ve got some savings.”

He looks at Brian, and tentatively reaches a hand towards him across the table, almost but doesn't quite reache Brian’s,

“You could come. Before it kills you too. What will we do here? Keep looking? And if we find them? Just die again? One of us will. Don’t you think? We should get out, while we still can. It’s what we said to Will, both of us, all of us, at different times. Take our own advice why don’t we?”

Brian looks up at him and lets one of his hands slide just a little forward so his fingertips are just brushing the end of Jimmy’s.

“You honestly think he’d kill us?”

He doesn't mean Hannibal. Jimmy nods.

“I think he would.”

Brian takes a deeper breath and looks at Sean,

“Sorry.”

...............................................................

Will helps Chiyoh move the three men. Over dinner he decided it was better not to wait after all. And the rain tonight will do some further damage. He looks over the boat by torchlight, the swell of the sea rising and falling, the weather deteriorating by the minute. 

“It’s all right. The systems have all fried. You were right. Nothing electrical is working. But I can jerry-rig it to run. When we sink it. That’s the idea isn’t it?”

Chiyoh nods.

“And we leave the men on shore?”

“Another day or two. Then we can take the boat out and then we can drop them where we put it down. The tides will bring them in or send them on. We can choose.”

“And the weather will help?”

“The weather will help. And now I need a hand back to the house. Are there drugs in my system still, because I feel like shit?”

She looks at him and he sees her equivocate,

“Just tell me one thing ok? Bedelia or Hannibal?”

She ducks her head. Will shakes his,

“She’s unbelievable.”

.........................................

Late that night Will can hear Hannibal in the room below playing the spinet. It’s clear and present notes strike the air as ruthlessly as the dance of Hannibal's knife in the world, merciless and piercing. Will lies on his bed and looks again at the floor above him and wonders about it. He’s stupidly tired and still feels some kind of drunk but he walks to the door, slides it open and then treads slowly up the stairs.

In the rooms above there are boxes. Mostly still packed and labelled. He flicks one open and then another. But he stops when he opens one. Fishing gear. It chokes him. He hasn’t fished since. He. God. Why?

The pain is lancing and tight. And he lets himself sit on the floor, lets it un-reel, lets his blood pool all around him. He hears the stag breathing beside him. But not dead this time. Rallying. 

.......................................................

Chiyoh sits across from Bedelia,

“Will knows.”

Bedelia stills for a moment but doesn’t reply.

.....................................................

 

“Here we are then Ms Lounds. Don’t you feel a sense of déjà vu?”

Freddie looks down at Frederick Chilton.

“I’m not keeping you alive this time Dr Chilton.”

“Oh I don’t know. I think you maybe did.”

Freddie gives a nod which might be agreement. Might not be. She wasn’t allowed to bring her camera in with her. Shame really. There’s appetite for this kind of carnage.

Freddie nods a little more definitely,

“Perhaps. What can I do for you Dr Chilton?”

“You following everything?”

“Don’t I always?”

“I’d say so. But you were quiet for a while there. I wondered why.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Jack Crawford, I’m not stupid.”

“Meaning I am?”

She sighs at him,

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings Dr Chilton, but despite all evidence to the contrary in this sorry debacle not everything is about you.”

He can’t smile she realises. She wonders if he would. Or would just snarl at her, he sounds only mildly put out when he says,

“Hannibal. Hannibal. Hannibal. You and Will Graham, both obsessed.!"

She laughs,

“Same pathology, it’s not so unlikely. Just a bunch of psychopaths helping each other out. Different motivation though.”

“You think Will Graham is with him?”

“I think it’s likely. What I don’t know is if it he wants to be.”

“You’ve seen his father haven’t you? And his wife?”

Freddie nods, he’s doing better than she expected if he knows this. She’s told Crawford but she’d thought the team was tight. 

“You obviously know I have. What about it? What’s your angle?”

“Quid pro quo Freddie?”

She nods,

“Sure. Quid pro quo Dr Chilton. Your quid, my quo.”

…………………………………..

Later still when the rain has picked up again Will makes his way down the stairs to his own floor, at his room he pauses and then carries on downstairs. At Hannibal’s door he pauses, there’s a low light shining under the door but no noise from within.

He stands there for a minute. Maybe longer. He rests his hand on the door for a moment and feels the rough wood beneath his palm. Debating.

He turns then and carries down another flight of stairs.

In the kitchen he fetches a glass of water and drinks it down. On the table the charts for the locale are spread out. They weren’t here earlier. Perhaps the intention is that they will examine them together tomorrow. He shifts over to look at them. Oh. Not where he’d expected at all.

All right then.

That gives him more than he needs to know right now. He gets another glass of water and makes himself finish this one as well. 

He thinks about forgiveness.

After minutes he doesn’t count he puts the glass beside the sink and then goes to the small lavatory off the mud room at the entrance to the lighthouse. The toilet is probably some kind of soak-away with a residual tang which isn’t quite pleasant but is somehow more real than much of what has happened recently.

He washes his hands at the sink in the kitchen and then goes back up the stairs. The light under Hannibal’s door is still there so he knocks and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer,

“Will?”

“Well that’s something. I did wonder if maybe Bedelia had taken her place back.”

If he is surprised to see Will he doesn’t show it. From the bed Hannibal frowns slightly, he sets aside the book he was reading,

“It was always your place Will.”

Will takes a deep breath, steps into the room and closes it behind him.

“I know.”

The walk across the floor is miles and years and too many sharp thorns, full of broken glass and shards of bone. The footprints he leaves across the carpet and planks are bloodied and deep.

At the edge of the bed he stops and looks at Hannibal.

“For now? For now, I’m simply here. If it is simple. Which I expect it isn’t.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Will sits on the bed, takes a few laborious breaths, and then shoves back the blanket and arranges himself the way he had leaned on Hannibal all those months ago when they went over the cliff.

“Is this all you wanted for me Hannibal is it? For both of us?”

“Not everything.”

Will huffs a little,

“Not yet.”

He sighs again, hopes that the flash beating of his heart is drowned out by the pounding hooves of the raven-stag pawing and starting.

“Can we sleep? Without dreams this time. Or a knife?”

“For now.”

Will laughs then,

“God, you never give up do you?”

“Why would I?”

“Sure. Why would you? It’s worked so far hasn’t it?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, and gradually and perhaps sooner than he expects Will falls asleep. 

Held.  
............................................


	10. Chapter 10

Will Graham Snr sits on a chair cudgelled from in front of the vanity at the open door of the motel room and looks out over the rough yard out the back. There’re scrabby trees beyond, ghost fingers scraping the board of his mind. Oh yes. He can see it too. See them. All of them. He takes a mouthful of coffee, lets it swirl around in the cup sees the storm within. The endless fight between darkness and light. He re-focuses, it’s just coffee and cream. He’s getting fanciful again. That’s Will that is. The two of them? Always brought it out stronger.

In the car park he sees a dark tinted SUV draw up and he watches as two men get out. One a little older, maybe fifties, one a little younger maybe Will’s age or thereabouts. They look around, he takes another mouthful and then gets up and goes back inside the room and puts the coffee pot on again. By the time he’s done fiddling around he turns back to the door he left open just as Jimmy Price raises a hand to knock on the door jamb.

“Mr Graham?”

He holds up a mug and points back to Jimmy.

“Coffee? Both of you? Bring the chair back in, we can sit for this, right?”

It’s Brian who lifts the chair and carries it back inside, Will Snr waves vaguely at the vanity and Brian re-locates the chair there, turned inward. Tidily. He and Jimmy stand for a moment until Jimmy shrugs and sits on the edge of the bed. Brian sits beside him.

“You want cream and sugar?”

Brian shakes his head, Jimmy smiles a little,

“White and one. Thanks.”

With doctored coffee Will Snr takes the chair again and turns it to face them,

“All right then. I know you, you’re Jack Crawford’s guys. What’s it all about?”

Jimmy seems to be the spokesman for the two of them,

“We are Jack’s. But we’re probably getting out. We wanted to ask you a favour, two really.”

“About Will?”

Brian nods his head, like a waggle of agreement, but one which is hard won.

“We wondered if you’d come to the cliff house? Where it went down? See what you make of it.”

The three men are quiet.

“You worked it out then?”

Jimmy’s knuckles whiten on the handle of his mug,

“Which bit? That Will maybe went of his own accord, to some extent at least, over the edge anyways, or that you’re like him, or rather..”

He trails off,

“He’s like me? Sure. He’s like me. Lots of ways.”

“Not this though?”

“Hannibal’s way? Not quite. But then I never met someone quite like Hannibal. And I had Will to worry about.”

He looks down at his hands then puts the mug to one side, turns the palms upwards, supplicant, a life of hard scrabble, dirt, and all too vivid an imagination.

“What’s at the cliff house you want me to see?”

“The ending.”

He looks up at the two men, so care-worn, so sorrowful. They trail regrets.

“Hoping for some peace.”

Brian smiles sadly at him,

“Trying to find a way to let go. To go over the cliff ourselves.”

“I can see why you might.”

He empties his cup,

“And the other thing?”

.......................................................

Hannibal wakes and Will is still turned on his side and tight in next to him. He gets up carefully, endeavouring not to wake Will from whatever seemingly quiet place he has found himself in. Somewhere without claws.

Downstairs Hannibal takes his time to make some coffee over the instant stove, uses the washroom, sets the propane to heat the water in the antiquated shower, though that’s a generous name for it, and sets a fire in the hearth of the wood stove.

The room slowly warms. The rituals of the morning bringing their own kind of rhythm and life. A ticking over and calm. In the small larder off the mudroom he considers the range of options suitable for breakfast. And his hands turn to the eggs and some hung sausage.

By the time everything is cooking Will is downstairs with his fishermen’s sweater pulled over some sleep wear and a collared long sleeve tee shirt. He looks like velvet over steel. The plastic surgery on the scar on his cheek has slightly puckered, not much, and Hannibal can’t decide if what riles him is the paucity of skill, the origins of the scar, his own slowness in that moment, or something else writhing in his own psyche. Something that screams ‘not mine’. He wonders if it’s a witness to his own hubris that will always remind him to be more careful.

“The water in the shower may be warm enough .”

“Really? I could only make it run cold?”

“I’ll show you the heater. It’s in a different room.”

Will huffs a little noise,

“Of course it is. What are you making?”

Hannibal looks down at the two pans he is using,

“I am almost embarrassed to say scrambled eggs and sausage.”

Will comes up behind him and tips his chin onto Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal tries not to stutter in his actions, but he can feel Will smile,

“Back to the beginning? How very sentimental of you. Sounds good. I’ll be maybe five to ten.”

“There are clean towels in there.”

Will stops on his way out of the door,

“Thank you.”

..................................................................

Jack looks across his desk at Sean,

“I don’t get it?”

“I’m not really sure either. They thought he might get a read on the scene in a different way I think.”

“Like Will?”

“Maybe. I think they’re just trying a last angle. We’ve got nothing Jack. Nothing on the tip-line. For all the reward business, nothing from the Verger-Bloom’s or Dr Chilton. Nothing and no-one. They really did go over the edge of the world. And off.”

Jack frowns a little, that crease between his eyes is permanent now, engraved there, he’s greying. From the outside in and the insides out.

“There’s still Freddie Lounds.”

“Not really Jack. She hasn’t really got anything new, she just packages it well. Sells it how she thinks we want to buy it. She knows her market.”

“Advertising.”

“Advertising. Hannibal Lecter is as good as gone. And Will Graham? I can’t say. But where ever he is, if he’s in Lecter’s orbit, he won’t come back dead or alive.”

“Meaning?”

“If he’s alive he might stay with Lecter, to keep everyone else that way, or, and I’m sorry to say so, because he wants to. And if he’s dead, it’s either punishment and Lecter is satisfied, or his death will move Lecter’s meaning.”

It catches at Jack, the phrasing. Reminds him. Of Bella. A short change in the punctuation. A short change of a life. He had been grateful then.

“If Will is dead you think it will be the end?”

“Not the end. But a cure. If Lecter is alive we won’t see him again. He’ll just be someplace, doing his thing, but Will was unique. Hannibal Lecter only became visible because of Will Graham. How long did Alana Bloom know him before it all unravelled? How blind was everyone? Everyone mind you. It was all for Will Graham.”

“I see that. Do you think I don’t. but what if it’s Dr Lecter’s who is dead? I have to keep looking, for Will’s sake. He might be out there.”

“With someone wanting to revenge themselves? On Will? If Lecter is dead? Who’s left?”

Jack sighs,

“I know. It’s a small field. Chilton? Maybe Dr Du Maurier, no love lost there, the Japanese woman.”

“It is a small field Jack. It might be different if Hannibal is alive. But Will? Alone. Not so much.”

Sean watches his boss some more, watches the waves of indecision slosh across his face,

“”This is because of Miriam Lass?”

Jack shakes his head,

“Mostly no. It’s more because I let Will rot last time around.”

Sean shakes his head,

“Jack? Honestly? That wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long way.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think, if I’m honest, and sorry and everything, but you’ve no idea what you did to him.”

Jack bows his head.

..................................................

Will stretches and smiles, makes a tiny tip to his plate indicating he’s finished.

“I’m going to go look at the boat and the bodies, have a think about it in daylight, look at lines of sight, get a better feel for it.”

Hannibal finishes his last mouthful,

“Would you like me to come with you?”

Will pauses,

“Show me the charts first. Have you talked to the coastguard?”

Hannibal stands up from the table and then moves to the radio, he turns various dials and switches and then pulls the headphone jack so that the thin noise can spool into the room. It takes a few minutes before someone answers.

“Philip? Are you alright? Everything ok out there?”

“We’re fine thank you. The generator coughed a little, but nothing too problematic. How’s the weather looking?”

“Another week of squalls, with occasional bad turns for the worse. You seen anyone?”

“We’ve had some wash up on one of the beaches. Anyone missing?”

“Macintosh lent his boat to some tourists, two guys and their father, saw their sailing certificates and everything, thought they knew what they were doing. They said they’d be out for a week. But would radio in. They’ve been quiet on the radio since the storm.”

“They might have a made the run here. I’ll look.”

“Would you? They might have hunkered down, sheltered in the lee? Might have lost their electrics. Stupid of him to let them go out. But the money was good I expect.”

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Ok good. Thanks for that. How’s the rest of you?”

Hannibal glances back at Will who is smiling, leaned up against the table. Nursing a glass of water.

“We are all well. We weathered the storm better than expected.”

“Good for you then. Next blue moon?”

Hannibal laughs a little,

“Next blue moon.”

He signs off and then turns to look at Will,

“Yes?”

“Yes. Let’s go and look. Is there a waterproof I can use?”

“There’s everything Will.”

Will puts the empty glass down, steps closer in and smiles, and then runs a finger down and along Hannibal’s jaw,

“Of course there is. Five minutes?”

Hannibal manages a nod as Will smiles some more and steps back.

...............................................

Kade Prurnell walks along the corridor. The tiredness she feels is carried in the stresses and strains of her joints. She feels like a marionette with strings tangled or cut. The last five years? Six? If she can she’ll retire next year. It’s too much. Bureaucracy and rules and the right thing to do can only take you so far. Beyond that? There’s an abyss she’d rather not stare into. 

She knocks on Jack Crawford’s door. She knows how he feels, and he might be surprised to know that her sympathies have shifted somewhat over the last year or so. She saw Alana Bloom recently, in a photograph, with her wife and child. Running scared. How things might have been different if she had listened to her. Or rather been willing to hear.

She hears Jack’s voice indicating entrance.

“Jack? We should talk. I’ve got some news you won’t like.”

.....................................................................

Will Graham Snr looks down over the cliff edge. The drive had been long but not torturous and he found himself warming to the two guys. He knows a little about them. Knew a little from before. Will had mentioned them both, maybe had some small liking for them, something that waxed and waned depending on the cases they were working. But he was wary of Jimmy’s tendency to drink as a safety net and Brian’s caustic tongue. Didn’t he berate himself enough without someone else giving voice to his own lashings?

“Long way down. I’m surprised either of them survived. Who lives here now? I didn’t see no trespass signs.”

“It’s empty. We think it’s owned by Lecter. Not confiscated though. Someone was living here whilst he was in prison. At least towards the end.”

“Yes?”

“Jack thinks it might be some kind of relative of Hannibal’s”

Will Snr smiles,

“Chiyoh? Sure. Maybe.”

Jimmy and Brian exchange looks,

“You know her?”

“Know of her. She shot Will. Threw him off a train. He told me.”

“Really? Fuck. How much did he tell you?”

“More than you might think. But not enough. I didn’t even meet Molly Foster. Before.”

“Didn’t go to the wedding?”

“Nope. He didn’t tell me until after. He knew I’d try to dissuade him.”

“Would you have?”

Will Snr nods. Looks back down over the edge and then back at the two men.

“You got the keys for the house? It’d help to see inside.”

Brian holds up a ring with three keys on it.

“We’ll have to use the front. When they boarded the window they weren’t thinking of the locks.”

The front door of the house is stiff with disuse and the stale air stirs the dust as wind eddies into the foyer around them. Will Snr. looks into the open space, looks beyond it.

“This is all Hannibal isn’t it?”

Brian looks at Jimmy again,

“It’s not like the Baltimore house at all.”

“No? I aint been there. Still like him though.”

Jimmy pauses at the bottom of the main staircase,

“Let’s go into the main room. Mr Graham, I’ve got to ask. Did you meet Hannibal Lecter?”

Will Graham Snr turns and looks at them,

“Sure. Of course. Did you not know that? I guessed you did.”

Brian’s mouth falls a little open,

“But when for fuck’s sake?”

“After Will got out of the BSHCI, and I went to see Hannibal there once. When he got back.”

“You make it sound like a holiday break.”

Will Snr laughs, snickers even,

“Isn’t that what that little jaunt to Florence was? And Will just had to run after him. Of course he did. It’s why he didn’t tell me about Molly. He knew I knew.”

Brian is still agape,

“Damn.”

“What did you make of Hannibal Lecter?”

“He was very polite and restrained and refined. And clearly arse over tit in love with my boy.”

Brian holds up a hand,

“Which time?”

“Both.” He sighs, “Look, the first time I met him I warned Will. And then realised I was just preaching to the choir. He knew. But he couldn’t decide. Well. He could. But he couldn’t decide if he could live with his decision. Turned out he nearly didn’t have to.”

“Why did you see Hannibal again?”

“In the BSHCI? He wrote to me. During the trial. So I tipped up and paid him a visit. I knew I wouldn’t be called. Didn’t make no mind to me. Saw Will after.”

“Was that the last time you saw him? Will I mean.”

“I seen him twice after. Last time was just after Hannibal wrote him. You seen that?”

“We know about it. He mentioned it to Alana Bloom, she’d already seen it. Nothing really gets past her.”

“Except Hannibal Lecter?”

“Excepting him.”

“He always did get past her. She’s got a blind spot for him, him and Will.”

.........................................................

On the walk back from the visitor’s boat Will manages on his own without recourse to leaning on Hannibal. 

“We should leave them for another few days. Especially if the weather is going to be bad again.”

“Sufficient difference to the bodies?”

“You saw the flies. A few more days and we’ll have clear indication of time of death. Maggots can’t lie. It’ll be helpful, and establish they were washed up somewhere for a bit. Then when the weather gets worse they get taken out again. It’ll work. I need to look at the charts some more and the tide tables.”

“Do you want to walk to the top?”

“Yeah. While it’s clear? Why not.”

They follow a steady path that eases round the hill that marks the highest point of the island. By the top Will is struggling a little but he manages to catch his breath when they stop. 

It’s a fine view. A wash of clear grey where the sea meets the sky, and though there are clouds it’s still.

“This will be something in Spring. How long are we staying?”

Hannibal notes the ‘we’ and tries not to clutch at Will, casually he tries,

“Initially? Another eight months. That’s what I contracted for.”

Will nods,

“I’d like to see it in the summer. Can we sit?”

Hannibal shrugs off his coat and spreads it on the ground, they crowd onto it, sitting with legs out in front of them angling downwards into a small dip from the crest of the hill.

“Fishing?”

“If you like.”

“Shore fishing when there’s a first run. Off the boat? Mackerel probably.”

“Mackerel is a fine fish.”

“I saw rabbit droppings. Is there a gun for them?”

“Yes. And net. I’m sorry, they won’t allow dogs on the island.”

Will laughs,

“Never mind. They worried about the birds?”

“The birds and the deer.”

“Deer? Really?”

“Small herd, endangered here, usually on the edge of the woodland though they graze all over.”

“Have you seen them?”

“In the evenings. From here you can sometimes track them when they graze.”

Will nods and then smiles again,

“If it’s clear later will you come back with me?”

Will’s face is open and bright, Hannibal smiles back at him,

“Of course.”

Will leans against him then,

“I like it here.”

“That was the idea.”

“I’d have liked Florence too.”

“I think so.”

.........................................................

Chiyoh carefully packs her belongings. As she brings bags into the small kitchen of the side building Bedelia watches her.

“Do you think your task here is finished?”

“Probably. Will Graham is almost recovered. Once the boat and the men are gone there are other things I shall turn my attention to.”

“Who they were?”

Chiyoh shrugs,

“The coastguard mentioned who leased them the boat, I shall manage some discrete enquiries.”

“Did Hannibal say if I was to leave with you?”

Chiyoh looks at her steadily,

“I always understood that that was the intention.”

“Even now?”

“I think so. Have you asked him?”

“Perhaps not as directly as I should. We have both alluded to it.”

“You are concerned about Will Graham.”

“Aren’t you? You shot him.”

“Will understood that violence was the answer to all the questions he was willing to ask then. He is different now. He has been for some time.”

“You think his wife changed him?”

“No. I think he was reminded of something. He and I spoke once, or at least I spoke and he tried to listen. I told him that where Hannibal was concerned there were other means of influence. She may have helped him find them.”

“Oh, Love. Well.” Bedelia sounds dismissive, and Chiyoh looks at her,

“Love might save you yet. Do not be so disparaging of it.”

Bedelia takes in a breath,

“I told Will that Hannibal was in love with him.”

“And what happened?”

Slowly Bedelia blinks,

“The Great Red Dragon. Violence disguised as love. Wearing its mask.”

Chiyoh smiles a little at her,

“You are wrong. It is love, disguised as violence. In case it is not returned.”

Bedelia retorts,

“Though that isn’t everything.”

Chiyoh inclines her head.

“Of course.”  
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

In the living room where Hannibal Lecter was shot Will Graham Snr. sits on the bench beside the piano picking out a tune. Slowly. Carefully.

“What is that?”

He looks at Jimmy,

“Nothing much. I don’t play no more. Will did. Practised a lot now and again. Got obsessed with some piece. Couldn’t let it go until he let it let him go.”

“I didn’t know he played.”

“You’ve been to his old place though? In Wolf Trap? He had a piano there.”

“I thought it was just left by the previous owners.”

Will Snr smiles.

“Why would he? Will had exactly what he wanted in that house. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

He pauses,

“Damn. I bet he misses the dogs. Unless Hannibal finds him something else.”

“Or a dog?”

“Or a dog. Gotta smile about that. Hannibal never was keen on the dog hair.”

“Did you know about the other?”

Will Snr pauses, for all the affability of Jimmy Price and the cautious willingness of Brian Zeller they are still FBI.

“The other? The murders? No. Not until later. I knew there was something up, else why was Will so conflicted.”

“You didn’t think that was down to other things?”

“What? Age? Income? Disposition?”

Jimmy nods, Will Snr smiles a small smile, his own version of around the edges,

“You ever see them not get on like a house on fire?”

“Will was plenty upset when he went to prison.”

“With you? Or Jack Crawford? Or Alana Bloom? Or with Hannibal?”

“We processed him. He was upset. He felt betrayed.”

“He felt betrayed by himself. And sure, by extension, by Hannibal. He’d already taken up residence then.”

Brian interjects,

“This place say anything to you?”

“I think they might both have underestimated just how far gone Dolarhyde was. Or Hannibal got a bit slower when he was in jail.”

“You think..”

Will Snr, interrupts,

“I think Dolarhyde was pushed and pulled by Hannibal every which way. And still got took over.”

“And Will?”

“Also got took over. By the moment. By what they did. By the possibility.”

“Do you think he meant them to die?”

Will Snr. sighs and closes the lid on the piano, smooths his hands over the lilting grain.

“He meant for something. Don't you think?”

Jimmy gnaws on his bottom lip and frowns. Brian though looks at Will Snr.

“Fuck. Is this? He can’t? Can he? It’s...”

Jimmy looks at him,

“Wait? What?”

“Is this some longer thing? It isn’t is it? Is it?”

Will Snr shrugs,

“Originally? Did the plan work out? Over the edge? Over and out? Who knows. But Will said goodbye to me. He’s not coming back. And he promised Hannibal a reckoning. A long time ago now. But he remembers. Betrayal? He remembers. He and Hannibal are alike like that.”

Brian nods slowly, thoughtfully,

“Didn’t kill him then. Lecter survived and Will knows it. Is this like Florence all over again?”

Will Snr looks at them both and then to the boarded over window, then back to the entrance foyer, where there is light still, though the day is drawing to a close,

“Aint no Vergers this time round. He took a knife with him to the gallery. It’s why Chiyoh shot him. He tell you that?”

“Only that Hannibal was going to open up his head and eat his brain.”

“Yeah. Can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em? That was Hannibal’s way. Is his way for all I know. What do you think Will’s is?”

“His way?”

“Yeah. How do you think he pours out vengeance?”

The sun must go behind a cloud as the room darkens and all three of them feel the cold for a moment.

......................................................

In the evening Will finds a tarp in the mud room and Hannibal brings a few blankets down from one of the boxes in the top room of the lighthouse. He wraps a pair of binoculars into a cloth and fills a flask with coffee laced with brandy. Everything goes into a rucksack. Will takes it and makes a face but shoulders it.

“If it gets too much, you can be sure I’m going to hand it over.”

He smiles. It’s easiest to manage and it will leave his hands free. He checks his pockets, looks up at Hannibal again and smiles.

“Ready?”

....................................................  
....................................................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YouWereSoAfraid, NiaKantorka and I went to an excellent lecture on maggots and murder over the weekend. I feel like there might be more infestations in our reading/writing futures. 
> 
> Hmmm. Don't you think research should mean something? You're welcome.
> 
> Piano playing references for Vix-Spes.
> 
> If you're reading? Thank you ver, very much. I oscillate between feeling reasonably confident and a shaky mess of words strewn on a page without wit or nerve..
> 
> better post before I lose either...


	11. Chapter 11

Jimmy takes his life in his hands and knocks on the door to Jack’s office. He has a brief moment to reflect on the fact that he has crossed this threshold here more times than he can remember now, more than he can even begin to imagine. And he’s brought more than his fair share of both good and bad news and delivered it like a cat with something it’s killed overnight, rank and befouled. Something usually being delivered against a clock. Now though? It’s different, he’s on his own timetable and on his own count down. He hears Jack call from inside and pushes the door open.

Jack doesn’t look up just grumbles,

“I wondered when you’d get around to me. Sit down Jimmy, I’m not mad. You gonna tell me all about it right? That’s why you’re here? Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

There’s an edge to his words but he keeps his voice mostly even. Jimmy nods though Jack still isn’t looking at him, and lowers himself into the more comfortable of the two armchairs across from Jack’s, the vast expanse of desk between them. The desk always brings flashbacks; the news about the dragon’s attack on Will’s family, the news about Baltimore, the news about Bev. More though it reminds him of school and sitting opposite some authority figure.

Not that he’d ever exactly acted out, just skirted a few rules, a few suggestions. He’d kept good grades, excelled in a few, identified an interest, a skill, and had aimed for it. Hard. He’d been ambitious once. And a teacher had responded to that keen interest and a career in forensics eventually beckoned. But who knew then? Who fucking knew?

Sure he’d had problems then, but not like now. Then it was all about his sexuality and that he made no bones about it. Never mind the times, the fucking Reagan years, the hell of HIV and AIDS and everyone he lost then, never mind the shit of the 90s and then the gradual shift of the 00s and now? Never mind all of that. He’d managed, with wit, with diligence, with always being just a little better, a little more conscientious, and he’d managed around authority, he’d managed school, college, the FB fucking I, and even the BAU and Jack’s temper. He’d managed. Not this though, not this. He is not managing this.

He can look at the situation, the slow acceptance, warmth, and how he’s an actual FBI treasure now. He’s well respected, well liked, and well at the end of his tether. For sure.

That he has persuaded Brian to leave with him, or might have done surprises him really. Maybe Brian too. They’ve talked, of course, since the canteen. And some things have got clearer between them and some things are still up in the air, or unresolved or something. But. Progress. Of a kind. Maybe. Jimmy isn’t going to push it. Not beyond getting Brian’s papers in. The rest? The rest can wait. He’s good at waiting. And sure, he knows that was one of the reasons he and Hannibal always got along alright, they could both wait.

“Jack. Don’t think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me here. In the team, the lab. Don’t think that for a minute.”

“‘But’ Jimmy? I can hear one hell of a ‘but’ in your voice.”

Jimmy looses a breath,

“If this was just about the investigation, just the science, you’d get no grief from me at all. But it’s not Jack, it’s not. We both know it. Sean had it right, we’ve all gotten a little obsessed. And obsession is what makes you careless. And in this job? Obsession will get you dead. It’s already cost us Bev, that kid. The judge. I don’t know. Too many people already.”

“And Will?”

“What about Will? You know he’s gone. Really, deep down, he’s gone. Alive or dead. I know that’s the worst of it. And we might never know. But he’s gone. Let it go Jack, let him go.”

Jack eyes him,

“I can’t accept that. I can’t let him go like that.”

It isn’t really like Jimmy to get exercised, at least, not about the people, he’s got that down, animals yeah? But not the people, and yet, yet, this has got him all riled up,

“Like that worked so well the last time. For Christ’s sake Jack! Guilt? Damn it all. Listen. Listen to me, I remembered something yesterday.”

Jack frowns at him but makes a rolling ‘go on’ motion with his hand,

“You remember that case with the kids? Abducted? Woman looking to build a family? Five years ago, something like that? I remembered what Will said..”

Jack makes a non-commital noise but Jimmy ploughs right on ahead, bulldozes, 

“He said that if you bonded with your captor you survived, and if you didn’t? Well, you were breakfast. Breakfast Jack. And with Hannibal? We know what that means. And so does Will. If he’s still alive? He’s not stupid.”

He pauses, shifts a little in the chair,

“All right the jury is out on that. But he’s not predictable. Except, I think, except where Hannibal is concerned. He’s Hannibal’s now. Alive or dead. Either of them. And he’s not gonna be breakfast, he’s gonna try to survive. For real.”

“And that means bonding?”

Jimmy nods,

“It does. It has to.”

He stops and then pleats his fingers in the gaberdine of his pant leg.

“It’s not just that. The case made me think of other things. About Hannibal.”

“What about a Hannibal?”

“I think this is about family. Will wanting one. Hannibal having lost one. Ok. Maybe not only that, not now. But Hannibal keeps trying to re-build his family, usually around Will, with Will. The family he lost, his parents, his sister. She was a lot younger Jack, Metcalfe mentioned her at the trial. Mitigation and shit. Yeah? His charge. Like the Hobbs girl. But it keeps repeating. He can’t break the pattern. He’s trying to break the pattern Jack. He’s after an ideal. He had a happy childhood, until it was all torn from him.”

He stops and Jack looks at him carefully,

“Sure you’re not projecting Jim? The things we can’t bear to lose? Back then none of us had children? Same now, except Alana Bloom.”

Jimmy nods,

“Yeah? And it makes me wonder if they haven’t got it right. To run, to hide, what they’ve got that Hannibal still wants and no one else has got.”

“Will did.”

Jimmy nods, 

“Well yeah. And how that turned out? It didn’t fit Hannibal’s ideal. It has to be a child he gives Will. That Will accepts, from him, with him. Or else? Shit, we see a repeat Jack. Every damn time. Every time.”

Jack nods,

“All right Jimmy? What’s your point?”

“Hannibal probably has Will, and Will is going to stay. And this time? This time Hannibal is going to try to break pattern and keep his family together. I’m not going to get in the way of that, of him. I’m not going to risk it. I love this job. I love it. But..”

“But? You don’t want to die?”

Jimmy sighs,

“Not to sound like a drama queen, and I’m aware I do, but no, no, I don’t want to die. Most of what we do? It’s not personal, not like this. This is personal Jack. It got personal, and it’s ending badly. It’s still ending badly. It hasn’t finished, I’ll give you that. But it’s ending. Hannibal orchestrated this. I think Molly Graham got this right at least. He knew Dolarhyde. He planned this. Maybe even as far back as Florence if Will did one thing rather than the other.”

“And Molly Graham was just an inconvenience along the way?”

“And then some. She gave Will everything Hannibal wanted to give him.” he stops and frowns, “that’s not it, not quite. She got everything Hannibal wanted from Will. Acceptance, intimacy, space in Will’s head. Love? A real partner, in life.”

“I’m not even going to ask why Will?”

“We know why Will.”

Jack nods again,

“Yeah. We do.”

He rubs his face, stretches and rolls and rubs his shoulders and his arms, stretches, tired. Always so tired.

“You given in your papers?”

“Yeah Jack. Three weeks, what with leave and sick days accumulated. Three weeks.”

Jack takes a deep breath,

“And Zee?”

“That’s for him to tell you.”

“Does he agree about Dolarhyde? About Dr Lecter?”

“Some of it, not all of it. But he sees it ending the same way.”

.................................

Freddie Lounds pushes a trolley round the supermarket. In her peripheral vision she can just make out Molly Graham leaning on her own trolley, an older woman talking in her ear, Molly with a resigned look on her face.

Freddie can’t decide if there’s anything left here but she’s always been thorough. She slides her trolley along the aisle and is about to make some asinine remark wen Molly Graham looks at her.

“Don’t bother Ms Lounds. I recognise you. If you’re after blood, well, I’m sorry, but it’s all gone.”

Freddie can’t help herself and smirks,

“And you don’t want a transfusion?”

Molly doesn’t roll her eyes, she’s too tired for that, 

“All right Ms Lounds what you got for me? Answers? Questions? Speculation? Frustration? Opportunities?”

“I think we can help each other out.”

“God, Will always said you were brazen..”

She stops, and just for moment maybe she considers it. Maybe. Then she’s the glint in Freddie’s eyes and she looks like a slot machine before the last character falls into line. Just before the cherry pops. Jackpot. A Vegas win of epic proportions.

“No.”

The cherry clicks over. No jackpot. No line. No deal.

“Freddie? Really? How many lives do you think you’ve got left? Will told me some of it. That guy burying people? The crazy who escaped and took a scalpel to his doctors? Lecter himself? Didn’t Dolarhyde have a go? You know what he tried with me and Wally. You know. Pick a different cause Freddie.”

Freddie looks at her and tilts her head. The older woman has drifted away, taking Molly’s trolley with her. 

“Your mom?”

Molly shrugs and then nods. Freddie blinks for a moment,

“Do you know much about Abigail Hobbs?”

“Well sure, a little. I guess. Will was fond of her.”

“That isn’t even the half of it Mrs Graham. Before you decide not to talk to me, you should at least hear me out. Please.”

And Molly, who is, in her own way, a sucker for strays gives in,

“All right then. But after this? We’re done.”

...............................

At the top of the hillside Will lays down the first of the ground sheets and then spreads a blanket over it, then a second. He gestures to it,

“I’m hoping that with the heather this will be ok. If it rains we’ve got the second ground sheet. Pull this over us too? It might get colder.”

He gets down onto his knees and then lies out on the blanket and turns onto his front looking down and across the island to the edge of the trees where Hannibal said he’d seen the deer before. He looks back at Hannibal standing looking slightly unresolved.

“Hannibal? What is it?”

Hannibal smiles very faintly and then lowers himself down beside Will. The blanket is surprisingly comfortable over the pillow of the heather. From the scent there might be some thyme mixed in there crushed and warmed by them. He pulls the second blanket over them both. But he stays lying on his back looking up at the dusking sky.

“I think it will stay clear.”

“Good. I reckon we could move those men in a day or two.”

“After the next storm.”

“That’s the idea.”

They’re both quiet for a bit, Hannibal watching the scudding cloud illuminated only by dint of the end of the day, Will waiting for the gloam to turn with the stars and moon.

“Coffee?”

Hannibal retrieves the flask and pours them both a cupful. Will smiles that he has brought two china mugs for the purpose. He pulls two apples from his pocket and then a small knife. He makes a start on cutting it up and makes to hand a piece to Hannibal.

For just a pause Hannibal stills and then accepts the piece from the blade. Will makes a small noise,

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I would think it is I who should be apologising.”

“Not this time. I feel like we’ve traded evenly now. Don’t you think?”

“Are we held in the balance Will?”

“We usually are.”

“Still unsettled.”

“Could go either way.”

Hannibal doesn’t smile, but his shoulders and neck and the set of his jaw hold marginally less tension, 

“There are deer at the tree line.”

Will pillows his head on his forearms, it’s not great on his shoulder so he tries to shift around a little, moves one of his arms,

“I’m going to grow old with a shit shoulder. You’ll have to do the heavy lifting.”

Tentatively Hannibal puts a hand on Will’s damaged shoulder,

“Of course. Though the extent might be in question.”

Will turns his head and looks at him, head still resting on his other arm,

“Are you all right?”

“Specifically or in general?”

Will smiles a little,

“Hannibal.”

“I am a little tired. And I am considering the question of Bedelia.”

Will raises his eyebrows,

“There’s even a question. I was going to say ‘I’ll bite’, because that’s what Wally would say, maybe you too?”

He looks just a tiny bit mischievous and Hannibal smiles,

“I’m pleased you’re relaxed Will.”

Will smiles and cuts some more apple,

“I’m the one with the knife this time.”

He offers Hannibal another piece which Hannibal takes from the blade with his mouth. Keeping his eyes on Will as he does so.

Will smiles.

..............................

In the kitchen Molly Graham’s mom puts away the groceries. She doesn’t approve of the choices her daughter has made but when has that ever stopped her? Molly stands at the doorway,

“I know mom. But..”

Her mom nods,

“We just want you and Wally to be ok. Get away from here. Be safe.”

“I want that too.”

“And Will?”

“Every one thinks he’s gone.”

“Do you think that?”

“I’m not sure he was ever really here.”

Her mom looks at her and sighs,

“So why is that journalist in the sitting room then?”

“Closure.”

Her mom huffs,

“And you haven’t had enough of that already?”

“For her actually. Maybe. If possible.”

“And then? You don’t owe her anything Moll.”

“I don’t. Maybe it will work both ways.”

Her mom shakes her head, how alike her daughter and Will are.

“Just don’t let her take any photographs. We know how that goes.”

.......................................

In the small building adjacent to the lighthouse Will sits with a cup of water and a morning cup of tea. He’s aching a little from the night on the hillside but the deer and the company made it worthwhile.

Across the table from him Bedelia is drinking coffee and surprising for this early hour a glass of wine.

“Did you know that Alana Bloom encouraged me to visit when Hannibal was under her care?”

“She didn’t say. For therapy?”

“Perhaps she thought it would have a therapeutic effect, but no, not primarily.”

“What then? Punishment?”

Bedelia takes a large mouthful of wine.

“A compendium of things I suspect. To alienate me from Hannibal and perhaps vice versa. To taunt Hannibal. She was very keen I talk about you. So there may have been some retribution in there as well I imagine.”

Will waits and then prompts,

“Did she hope she might alienate Hannibal from me?”

Bedelia smiles a little,

“As I say. A compendium of things. I suspect her motives were not clear even to herself, perhaps especially to herself.”

Will looks at her for a while. He empties down his cup of water. She looks at his other cup.

“You haven’t touched your tea,”

“That’s right.”

She puts down her wine,

“Why don’t you ask me Will? Or is passive aggression and poorly considered metaphor to be our stock in trade here?”

“You missed out tortured classical allusion and allegory.”

For the first time ever that he can recall she laughs. She picks up her glass of wine, and then raises it to him,

“Touché.”

“Really Bedelia? Really? Is this how you imagine you’re going to survive this. Is it? Why are you here? Why are you still here? For the lecture circuit? I can’t believe that. This is the belly of the beast, two beasts even.”

“A beast with two backs.”

“Not worthy of you Bedelia.”

She smiles a little,

“It’s always been a challenge and sometimes difficult to know where the two of you are with each other, and brokering that is..”

“Interesting?”

“Carnage and mayhem have a certain redolent attraction when viewed from the outside. And from the inside the viscera is bright when fed with oxygen.”

“Games as well as the bread and roses?”

“As well as, yes.”

“You’re hoping this constitutes forgiveness? Or earns you it? For what? The lectures? For the sessions in the BSHCI? For being Alana’s poodle? Oh, wait, for Florence?”

Bedelia shrugs a shoulder delicately.

“He was waiting for you. He always has been.”

Will looks away.

“I know that. So what then. For not being me? What are you waiting for? Some sign? If it’s forgivenes didn’t you tell Hannibal he’d have to eat me?”

“He came to that conclusion on his own.”

Will snorts.

“Keep telling yourself that Bedelia. He’ll either keep you or eat you. Aren’t those the usual options. Or do you think me being here makes that much of a difference?”

She smiles,

“I’m counting on it.”

“Don’t fool yourself.”

“I think we’re all doing that.”

She considers for a moment, the segue obvious,

“What about your wife Will?”

Will frowns at her,

“You asked me that before, we should leave her out of it.”

“Do you think Hannibal will? She’s had what he hasn’t.”

He laughs,

“Do you mean sex? That’s not Hannibal’s primary driver.”

“No? Intimacy is though. She’s had your eyes, your touch, room in the bone arena of your skull, Jack Crawford told me that. She’s had everything he wants.”

Will looks down again, at his hands around the cup, he stretches out his fingers, flexing them.

“We’ve begun to blur.”

“Begun?”

He waggles his head, a brief nodded acceptance,

“All right. Again.”

She nods her head.

“That’s more like it. That I believe.”

“God you’re remorseless. And they called Hannibal the psychopath.”

She smiles again, and then raises he glass once more,

“They did, didn’t they?”

..............................

 

The sky is still clear in the afternoon and Will spreads the tarpaulin and blankets out, he lies down like the day before and Hannibal stretches out beside him,

“Is this to become a regular occurrence?”

“I did this with my dad. As a kid. Just sometimes. We didn’t have a tent. But that didn’t matter if it stayed clear. So, regular? I don’t know. The weather’s bound to get worse. Maybe just the clear days. And nights.”

He sounds softer as he says it and when he puts a hand over Hannibal’s Hannibal can’t help but wonder what this might portend.

“I liked your father.”

Will smiles and squeezes his hand a little.

“I know. He said.”

............................

Brian Zeller knocks on the door of Jack’s office and pushes on it when there is no answer. The light is on so maybe he’s just abstracted. Wouldn’t be the first or only time.

In the chair behind his desk Jack is sitting there gasping,

“Jack, fuck! What the?”

On the desk there’s a small bottle of pills that have been knocked over. Scattered across the surface. Brian snatches it up and reads the script,

“Fuck is this Jack? You gotta be kidding me. Fuck. Your heart?”

Jack manages to nod. Brian grabs the desk phone,

“Get an EMT to Agent Crawford’s office. Up on ninth. BAU. Fucking hurry. He’s having a heart attack.” 

He slams the phone down, and pushes round the desk fast and hard and helps lower Jack to the floor.

“Fuck Jack. Breathe. Breathe.”

He fumbles with his cell, tries for Jack’s tie.

“Sean? Sean. Quick Jack’s office. Hurry. Bring the defibrillator. He’s having a heart attack, help me. God’s sake.”

A few moments later and both Sean and Jimmy crowd into the office, Sean carrying the portable defibrillator from the lab, dusty from its time just sitting on a shelf. Never used. Brian prays it’s charged. His hands are shaking when he finally gets Jack’s tie off, still the same regular small geometric prints. He and Jimmy used to joke about Jack and Hannibal having some kind of tie off.

He ends up ripping most of the buttons off Jack’s shirt, then bends and listens for the erratic heart beat, feels for his pulse. He listens to Jack’s desperate grasping breaths. He rips the backing off the pads from the defib and then sticks them to Jack’s chest,

“Fuck me. All right. Everyone. Clear.”

He depresses the button. Jack jumps. Brian presses the recharge button. Still shaking.

“Wait.”

He checks Jack again,

“Fuck. Again. Clear.”

Jack jumps again,

Brian leans over, ready to start mouth to mouth, he glances up at Jimmy.

“Fuck this. Find out about the EMT? And Jim? This isn’t our fault all right? It isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..............  
> ..............
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry to be a day late posting. This was mostly written over the Atlantic and despite the time difference from the U.K. to Canada I was too tired to type it up.
> 
> And still so many typos which I think I’ve now fixed!
> 
> Fannibal Fest Toronto! Yay. 
> 
> Really and truly. Yay! Starts tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the typos when this was first posted, they had just called my flight home from Fannibal Fest in Toronto, just as I was about to go through it a final time. So I did the corrections on the plane, and shit there were so many I’m embarrassed! Not usually that bad! And of course I updated when I landed but lots of people had read all those terrible glitches! Ugh. Sorry.

Brian feels way past exhausted. So tired he knows he’s no longer coherent or safe to drive. He walks over to his car in the grounds of Johns Hopkins hospital and then struggles to find his keys. Of course they’re in the last pocket he checks. He sighs. Maybe he should just sleep in the back of the car for a bit. Jimmy has already left or he’d beg a lift home.

He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, frowns. He knows he and Jim need to sit down and talk it out. Not just what’s happened today but the whole thing. There’s maybe four years of talking to catch up to. He thinks of Will. Wonders what kind of catching up he and Hannibal might be doing and how bloody it might be. If either of them will make it out alive. Or if ultimately any of them will. He’s beginning to see what Jimmy means.

He wrenches open the back door of the car and settles across the back seat using his coat as a blanket and his clasped hands as a pillow. His scarf he wraps around his eyes. Draws his knees up closer to his chest. Takes a few deep breaths before he sinks into a welcome oblivion.

His brief dreams leave him gasping and desperate. And after the third time of trying to will them away he gives up, gets out of the car and into the driving seat, starts the engine. Prays he doesn’t hit anyone or anything.

...................................

Hannibal watches as Chiyoh unwinds the scarf round her neck and then drapes both it and her coat over a chair.

“You were very quick.”

She incines her head as she pulls back a chair and then sits,

“It transpires it was a straightforward enquiry. The coastguard has reported them missing at sea, but there is no one at home to follow it up. The father has a cousin, but there is no one else.”

“No wife? And no one close to the brothers?”

“No one who is not perhaps relieved that they are gone I think.”

Hannibal nods,

“Good. Thank you. And definitely Chilton?”

“He’s set up a tip line and reward. It’s not very secure.”

“And the reward?”

“Information. Not a capture. They may have been interested in the FBI reward. But I do not think they made contact.”

“How did they track us here?”

“That’s harder to be sure. Maybe someone on the mainland with just a supposition. Maybe someone trawling for this kind of isolated occupation, good for a secluded recovery. Maybe some log somewhere that tripped someone’s interest. Or someone could not keep their mouth shut. I have initiated enquiries.”

“Not Freddie Lounds?”

“I do not believe so. No. Though she is active again.”

“Yes?”

“Molly Foster. Frederick Chilton. Jack Crawford. Will Graham Snr.”

“Will’s father?”

Chiyoh nods and she sees his hands tense on the table top, nevertheless she carries on,

“Mr Graham has also seen Molly Graham, and Jack Crawford. The two FBI men took him to the cliff house.”

He raises both eyebrows,

“Yes?”

She shrugs, a small delicate movement.

“There is nothing there.”

He frowns a little,

“I would agree except that..”

“He is like Will?”

“To some degree.”

She nods.

“That is not all. I have found the Verger Blooms.”

“Good. What else?”

“Agent Crawford has had a heart attack.”

Hannibal pauses,

“Is he alive?”

“At the moment. But he is unresponsive. He is at Johns Hopkins. Do you wish me to reach out to someone there?”

“Please. Is there anything else?”

“What about Freddie Lounds?”

Hannibal considers a moment.

“I shall think about it. And speak with Will. You’re ready to leave again? More permanently?”

“If you think you are secure here and that Will Graham is well enough. I can arrange for a boat. Perhaps when the weather clears.” She pauses, “what of Dr Du Maurier?”

“I think even she might concede that she has been reckless.”

Chiyoh slowly nods. It’s what she’s expected but she’s a little saddened by it. It increases, well, it increases the likelihood of all kinds of problems, though Hannibal has to know this.

.....................................

Jimmy sighs as he opens his front door,

“You should go home Brian you look like shit.”

“Thanks. Make me some coffee will you?”

“I was on my way to bed.”

“Good for you. Still make me some coffee. And make up the spare room. Or the couch. Anything.”

“Not going home then.”

“Nope.”

Brian follows Jimmy into the small kitchen that opens onto the living room, just divided by a breakfast bar. He’s propped himself up on these stools countless times and he slumps onto one now. Jimmy makes a fuss over setting up the coffee maker.

“I should make you some juice too.”

“Yup. You should.”

Jimmy huffs a little but gets the juicer out and then halves six oranges from the fridge. He gets the juicer going. Brian closes his eyes against the noise. When the juice is done he cradles it and drinks it slowly. When the coffee is done he scorches it down like a lover.

“Fuck this day.”

Jimmy nods shortly,

“Is he going to pull through.”

“I don’t know. The doctor couldn’t tell me anything. And the only family Jack’s got is some elderly aunt. She’s supposed to come in but honestly? They’re probably going to use his instructions in his FBI personnel file.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen,

“What? He’s got a DNR or something?”

“That and an organ transplant donor card.”

They both look at each other and Jimmy huffs a tiny laugh,

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t. Oh fuck. Oh Jack? Honestly!”

Brian looks at him faintly scandalised, then he smiles a little.

“Well just.. god. Fuck me.”

They both laugh. And somehow it clears some of the tension that’s been building since the discussion in the canteen.

“We should talk about it shouldn’t we?”

Brian nods.

“We should. Maybe in the morning. I’m already dead.”

He rolls his eyes when Jimmy smiles a little again. For fucks sake. Honestly.

....................................

Freddie Lounds eyes Molly Graham carefully. They both drank too much last night and Freddie thinks that just for once in her goddam life she might have overshared a little. And sure Mrs Graham wasn’t a bitch about it but she could still be.

Molly pushes a cup of coffee across the table.

“Drink it. I won’t be repeating anything you said. I get it now.”

Freddie nods.

“I told a few people back then. When Chilton was charged as the Ripper? I couldn’t believe he’d been responsible. I said I wouldn’t let it go.”

“And you still won’t? You’ll end up killed Freddie. Or worse.”

Freddie is about to make a quick comeback but she thinks about this,

“What’s worse Mrs Graham?”

“Knowing I’m no longer Mrs Graham. Knowing I probably never really was.”

Freddie drinks a mouthful of the coffee, slightly burnt, not great, but hot and valiant,

“You talked to Mr Graham Snr?”

Molly nods and drinks her own coffee.

“Is that who convinced you?”

“He just confirmed it really. Will was trying. He really was. But I didn’t even know about the first letter Lecter wrote. Or that he’d met Will’s father. I just got him on the back foot, when he thought he wanted out.”

Freddie drinks again and then tries not to smile, Molly narrows her eyes,

“What?”

“I’m sorry. Really. But you’ve got to admit, that’s one hell of a rebound? From Hannibal Lecter? To you?”

Molly glares, and then suddenly laughs,

“It really is. Isn’t it? It really the fuck is.”

She smiles a little and then sobers up,

“But I still don’t understand how Will forgave him for Abigail?”

“Do you think he has? I had a conversation with Will once about how we start to covet things, obsess about them. He didn’t like me much at the time but he did talk a little.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’m following?”

Freddie pushes her cup aside,

“He said he wasn’t sure if he’d survive Hannibal? Right? Before Abigail died, before he nearly did. And before he ran off to Florence after Hannibal and Dr Du Maurier? Yeah? So, Hannibal was obsessed, but Will was obsessed too. But everyone thinks it’s with Hannibal. I don’t. Not now. I think it’s with revenge. He covets revenge.”

Molly makes a small twist of her mouth.

“I’d like to believe it. I really would. But I’m not sure that’s what this is. I think he’s gone to be with Hannibal.”

Freddie nods,

“And you don’t think that’s revenge? You don’t think Hannibal Lecter might be actually fucking terrified of the things Will makes him actually feel or actually do? He killed Abigail. He actually killed her! That must have scared him shitless. He felt so strongly about Will he killed their daughter. And now Will is with him? Probably? God. I think this is all about revenge.”

Molly is still frowning but she considers that Will’s dad said something similar about the shape and nature of Will’s reckoning.

“Maybe. But why would you go after that?”

“Still one hell of a story. And if this is for Abigail I want to hear that from Will Graham’s own mouth.”

“Well, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for Freddie. Can’t you just be right?”

“I can be. But I want everyone to know it. Wouldn’t you?”

................................

Margot lifts their son and props him on her hip, he’s almost too big to do this now, at least for anything more than a few minutes.

“I think someone has been looking for us.”

Alana looks up at her from the tablet and the article she is reviewing. Margot shifts Morgan around a little, onto her other hip, to get more comfortable.

“They left an electronic footprint.”

Alana nods,

“Did they mean to?”

“Possibly. If we move again we’re more visible.”

Alana nods. This is what worries her most. It’s easy to get spooked and when you’re spooked it’s easy to do something a little foolish. A little more out there. Which could be absolutely the worst thing.

“Hannibal?”

“Or someone on his behalf. Or someone just looking to shake things up a little?”

Alana sighs again,

“Freddie Lounds?”

“It’s not impossible?”

“It’s not. Damn. Will you have someone reach out to her?”

Margot nods.

“Already done. I was pretty sure you’d say that. I’m not sure we can convince her, but we could try. Should try.”

“I’d be interested to know if she’s got anything else. I heard from the FBI OIG.”

Margot looks at her, still shifting Morgan around, swinging him a little while he fiddles with her necklace.

“Some new carnage in Jack’s office?”

“Two things actually. They’re closing down the active part of the investigation in a month or so. It will have been a year, and there’s been nothing new on Hannibal since that night, and nothing on Will since he went missing. And that’s coming up for five months now. And secondly, Jack Crawford has had a heart attack.”

Margot snorts,

“You still know how to bury the lede Alana. Is he alive?”

“For now.”

Margot nods, and shakes her head a little,

“I wonder how Hannibal might feel about Jack dying a natural death.”

Alana looks at her, and slowly a look of calculation comes into her face. Margot watches her,

“You’ve thought of something especially unpleasant haven’t you?”

She fusses a little at their child and Alana says,

“That promise goes both ways.” 

.................................

Will lies on his back on Hannibal’s bed. It’s started to rain outside. Hannibal lays beside him carefully running just the tip of one finger over the planes of Will’s face, his hand stills as it stops against the scar left by Dolarhyde.

“I can do something about this if it bothers you.”

Will shrugs.

“It’s not the worst thing ever. I’ve plenty more.”

Hannibal hasn’t seen them. Not really. Not intimately. Or with Will’s permission or cooperation. Except for his shoulder, when Chiyoh shot him.

“Chiyoh has brought some news from the mainland. I debated whether to tell you but I think I should.”

Will turns his head to raise surprised eyebrows, he catches up Hannibal’s hand and kisses the finger that had been tracing his face, 

“Really? Dealing out truths now? This is a new currency.”

Hannibal ignores the jibe, intent on his own breathing, stuttered on the small intimacy. Will squeezes his hand and then puts it in the space between the pillows.

“So?”

“I’m sorry, Jack Crawford has had a heart attack.”

Will blinks at him a few times and then props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Hannibal,

“When? Is he alive?”

“So far. And it was only two days ago.”

Will frowns and then pushes himself up to sitting fully and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He runs his hands through his hair. Then turns his head back towards Hannibal,

“I don’t know what to think. This isn’t what I expected at all. Do you know anything else?”

“Chiyoh has done some small investigating.”

“We’re still safe here aren’t we?” He sees Hannibal nod, “Ok then. Fuck. Is he still in the ICU?”

“At Johns Hopkins.”

Will snorts,

“God. That’s some rich irony right there.”

“It is. I think Jack might appreciate it.”

“I’m going to get some water. Can I bring you anything?”

“No. Thank you. I’m going to check everything is all right outside.”

“Before the storm really gets going? Do you want me to come?”

They leave the room together and in the kitchen Hannibal waits for Will to drink a glass of water before they pull on sweaters and coats and boots.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

......................................

When Hannibal contacts the coastguard they have their usual run of banter, Hannibal increasingly amused by the dry humour of the man.

“I don’t like the sound of it. Mac told me they didn’t have life belts and the dinghy was a bit poor. If they got into trouble we might not find them.

Hannibal agrees slowly,

“I’d be sorry if the first bad weather throws up something of this sort.”

“Hey. Not your fault. Happens every year. Mac’s an idiot. His boat has been an accident waiting to happen. He’s reckless with it. Well, not so much of himself, but loaners. His records aren’t worth shit either. We don’t know where they came from. I’m hoping we at least find a wallet. Or ID, or something. Weather turning?”

“It is worse by the hour. Yes. And of course we shall continue to look here. There’s at least one inlet I haven’t checked properly. Though I’ve looked in the most obvious places.”

“Bet you were looking for a boat though.”

Hannibal smiles into the old fashioned microphone of the radio/receiver and then composes his face again,

“That is true. Should I look for bodies then? Do you have descriptions?”

“Christ. Don’t go out in this. All I got so far is two guys and their dad. And I’d appreciate it. But wait for the weather.”

“Of course. Everything else is going well here. It has been peaceable.”

He sees Will smirk and smiles back at him and only partly listens to the final parting words of the coastguard. All the same they finish the call amicably.

“Will?”

“What’s he like?”

“Pleasant. Meticulous. Patient. And probably more tolerant than he should be of those who skirt the law. His wife too is very kind.”

Will considers him,

“That means something to you doesn’t it?”

“Kindness in general, or the kindness of women?”

“A little of both I think?”

“Perhaps.”

...............................

Will Graham Snr looks around the opulent dining room. The car that brought him to the hotel had been bad enough but this? He can’t decide if this is meant to intimidate or impress or something. Something, maybe. He takes the seat he’s indicated and a waiter brings a try of tea and a range of sandwiches and cake. He fills a plate. No point punishing himself or doing whatever it is they’d think if he didn’t eat, or if he did.

He eyes the two women as they walk across the room towards them. He wonders how much they know he knows. And what they’ll do to find it out.

“Mr Graham? I’m Alana Verger Bloom. I’m pleased to meet you.”

He shakes her hand and then Margot Verger Bloom’s. And they all sit down, spread around the well dressed tea table.

He lets Dr Verger Bloom talk and then Ms Verger Bloom. They go back and forth between them and eventually Will Snr holds up a hand.

“This is a good tea. You gonna have any or can I just plough through?”

Margot’s lip twitches. And he thinks that if things had been a little different they might have got along. She’s got a little humour. Alana though? Maybe not so much.

“Go right head Mr Graham. There’s plenty more.”

He nods and carries on. Waiting for them to get to the point. Eventually, when he’s getting a little bored and damn if Dr Verger Bloom just doesn’t know when to shut up?

“You want to know if I know where they are? I don’t. And I’ve heard nothing since either of them went. And Chiyoh hasn’t contacted me either. The only people I’ve spoken to are on your side of the law. You know Will wrote? He wrote. He said goodbye. Whether he was sure he was dying or just losing, that wasn’t clear, but it was good bye. I told Molly Foster that too. You spoke to her too right?”

Alana nods tightly.

“I bet that didn’t go so well did it?” He smiles ruefully. “Why would it. Ok. Anything else?”

Alana and Margot look between each other.

“Would Will come after us?”

“Honestly? If you go after Hannibal and he ends up hurt or worse I couldn’t promise either way. If you get in his way, probably.”

Alana is about to remonstrate when Margot rests a hand on her arm,

“In his way? What does that mean?”

“What do you think Will is doing? If he isn’t already dead?”

The two women look at each other and then at him again, Alana ventures,

“I don’t understand.”

Will Graham Snr smiles.

“You never did.”

..............................

The storm seems almost to have broken its own back against the island. Hannibal wakes up and finds the other half of the bed empty. The sheets are cool to his touch so Will hasn’t been gone for long. But. Long enough. Slowly he gets out of bed. Not worried yet. Not quite. It’s entirely possible that Will has gone to the bathroom or to the kitchen. He pulls on some warmer clothing over his nightwear.

He pads down the stairs in his socks but Will isn’t in the kitchen. Or the bathroom. Hannibal feels a cold kind of inevitability about it. But he goes through the motions. He collects his coat, fetches an oilskin and pulls on waterproof trousers and boots. Thinks of the plastic suit he used to have, and its functionality.

Outside the wind and the rain are still appalling. He pushes into it, down the path to where their own boat is normally berthed. It’s not there. He feels a desperate wrenching terrible anger. At his own stupidity, that he let himself be drawn in again. That he is always and for ever so utterly vulnerable to this kind of betrayal at Will’s hands. Will had promised him a reckoning, a repayment in kind and if he wasn’t so broken by it he’d be almost impressed. Again. But it hangs heavy. 

He stalks back up the hill, the wind at his back this time, buffeting him along, pushing him. He trembles before it. Feels his own fury mounting. He pushes into the small building and goes through the kitchen to knock on Chiyoh’s door, when she opens it she sees his face,

“What has happened? Is it Will?”

“He has gone.”

She looks at him.

“I don’t believe it. I..”

“The boat is gone.”

“Maybe the news of Jack..?”

Hannibal nods, a tight, angry movement, a small snarl on his lips, it’s not so impossible after all. Will once again being reeled in by old constraints of morality and obligation, not so surprising.

“What will we do? Without the boat?”

Hannibal blinks,

“The storm? I think the coastguard might believe it.”

Chiyoh nods.

“Yes. Maybe. I’ll come back to the lighthouse with you. We should call him now. While it is still bad, and a shock.”

He can see the sense in it. Swallowing his despair. For it is despair of a kind. They force their way together back to the light. The wind picking up again, just a little. Hannibal makes the call and the coastguard is all sympathy and concern. Hannibal doesn’t mention Will.

“We’ll send someone out as soon as we can. See if we can get a hire for you. Something. Everything else all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Hannibal signs off on the call and looks at Chiyoh, he’s about to speak when the door bangs open and Will pushes in through the door, soaking wet and clearly somewhat alarmed.

“Fuck I should have got one of you to come, both of you. Stupid of me really.”

He looks at them both, at their expressions.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

It is just possible that Hannibal makes some kind of noise.

“Hannibal? What happened?”


	13. Chapter 13

The intensive care unit at Johns Hopkins is dark, only the machines offer any kind of sensory input. The life supports keep beeping steadily and something about it makes Alana think of the sounds they’d heard when Morgan had been enwombed and they’d had a scan.

Maybe then for some people this is how it begins and ends? The sound of a heartbeat, a wash of susurrating noise, warmth, from womb to womb giving birth to death rather than life. It’s not entirely unsoothing, or at least she can appreciate its semblance of peace. And if Jack dies here there’s something in that. Not dead at the hand of some perp, some as yet un-known subject. Or worse, someone who was once known, known and at least once warmly thought of. Thanked.

Jack and Hannibal. They came close at least twice, all brimstone and fury and righteous ire. And now she can see it, that they both felt that way.

She knows she still doesn’t understand Hannibal, how could she? And maybe still she thinks he doesn’t quite understand her or even what she is capable of.

Jack doesn’t stir awake. The monitor showing brain activity suggests he’s still very much there, inside, somewhere. But it’s impossible to tell where he’s going. Or if there’s anything left for him to hang on in there for in the here and now. No one is especially optimistic about that. 

She’s wondered the last few days if he’d approve of her plans. But she remembers her own words to Kade Prurnell and thinks that Jack would at least understand her desperation. And would understand even if he didn’t endorse her methods. She looks at his face, still greyed at the edges, running across the smoothed planes of his face, his hair showing grizzled and white in places. Ahh, to hell with it, he’d approve, he’d agree. After all wouldn’t it mean saving lives. Even if it promised a few lost as well? He would, and just for a while still she’d appreciate that. Wants that. Isn’t that why she’s here, some unspoken give and take?

................................

The look on Hannibal’s face is all too familiar and when he reaches out a hand Will takes an involuntary step backwards. It stops Hannibal in his tracks. And he drops his hand into a clenching fist at his side. Considers what he may have just undone. Will blinks at him and then glances aside to Chiyoh.

“Ah, shit. You thought I’d gone didn’t you?”

There is no real answer to that and the three of them are held for a moment in an unholy trinity. Chiyoh though, does what she has done before, and steps into the space between them.

“You and the boat were gone. It was difficult to consider otherwise. We have already informed the coastguard about the boat.”

Will closes his eyes and sags back against the sink. He blows out his cheeks,

“Ok, well, I guess that’s salvageable. I can talk to him. Did you really think....”

He stops and doesn’t speak for several minutes and the silence stretches between them. Chiyoh looks first at him and then at Hannibal and then takes a deliberate step aside. She nods to Hannibal who manages to acknowledge the gesture but keeps both of his eyes on Will. When the door is closed behind her Will sighs,

“You didn’t trust me. You don’t still.”

There isn’t a ready answer, nothing that doesn’t easily confirm or deny and all these easy half truths have lost their coin now. Hannibal deflects,

“Will you tell me what happened?”

There’s a silence between them again filled with the rain and dripping of another night. Will sighs,

“It was just the best time to lose the other boat. I took ours. And I could manage it. More or less. I put the men down separately but so that it makes sense.”

Hannibal frowns,

“You looked at the charts?”

A thin vein of anger pumps through Will but he keeps it under control when he says,

“Of course I looked at the charts. This isn’t some Hansel and Gretel fucking breadcrumb trail Hannibal.”

Alright then, not quite as under control as he’d hoped. He breathes hard, tries to rein it all back in. All of the last six years.

“I told you. Weren’t you listening to me? God. I don’t want us to have to leave.”

The air stills around them. So much flesh memory tied into these words. Or words that are sufficiently similar that it gives them both pause. Unconsciously perhaps Will hand strays to his stomach. He watches Hannibal watch him with something that might be greed in his eyes. Not that that surprises Will any more. He catches his own gesture. His hand splayed across his belly. He straightens up and his voice is a little firmer.

“Would it help to see how just how far my forgiveness extends Hannibal? Would it? I can show you.”

There’s some not inconsiderable anger in his voice still and he sees the stillness gather in Hannibal’s face.

“Fuck it! Work with me here. I’ve already told you most of it. Do you need me to show you?”

He can see the tightness round Hannibal’s eyes when he takes a step closer, the look of almost supercilious indifference, that he knows is anything but.

Cautiously he reaches for Hannibal’s hand. The right one. The one that held that weirding way last time. The blade that snickered through him and ultimately brought him here. Because if he didn’t care at all? Hannibal would have either killed him, or ignored him. But he couldn’t do either. Inconvenient and everything though it is and has been, for some six years now.

Hannibal threw it all in the air and this is what landed.

It was a different kind of barbed lure. It’s not only Will that’s a fisherman. He can see that now too.

He pulls Hannibal’s hand in close to his side and then eases their joined hands up and under the collared long sleeved tee shirt and heavy sweater he’s wearing. Both their hands are cold, but it’s not only that that causes him to shiver as he guides Hannibal’s finger tips to the edge of the scar that bisects his stomach.

For a moment both of them do nothing. They both simply look and breathe at each other. Carefully, slowly, and telegraphing all of his intentions different from five years ago, and at least twelve inches in distance between them Hannibal gets to his knees. The underfloor concrete of the ground level of the lighthouse is unforgiving, but Hannibal barely registers it. It’s not what he cares about. Will threads one hand through Hannibal’s hair and looks down into his eyes, the heavy look filtered through a fan of eyelashes.

There’s supplication there, supplication and prayer. And when Hannibal sets his mouth to the scar Will’s thoughts scatter; catholic ideas of Eucharist and thanksgiving, communion, the old Christian idea of Agape, the love meal. He closes his eyes, lets himself drift into the design, all Hannibal now. All Hannibal’s now.

Hannibal kisses and lips along the puckered line of the scar he left. He uses one hand to hold Will’s shirt and sweater out of the way, his hand over Will’s. The other he rests on Will’s waist. Not pushing or pulling, just an anchorage.

It’s what Will has become. In the beginning he was both enchanted and terrified by what Will brought out in him, dragged from him, exploding outwards, blood flung everywhere. Scattered and deep. But it all changed. Everything did. After the bone saw. 

He is a safe haven now. A harbour for his own thoughts and fears, his dreams and hopes. His loneliness. His screaming absence. He kisses and tongues his way. Will’s flesh is warm and taut, slightly salty from the sweat and adrenaline fuelled night and however bad the seas were, and what ever impulse shifted him to move to save them. And that thought sputters and stalls. He’s been trying to save them. Saving Hannibal even when he couldn’t save himself? Or maybe Will knew he couldn’t save himself, the old one, that false one. The one that was a pretty mash that Alana warmed to, that Molly Foster had wanted. Hannibal’s kisses are reverential and as honest as he knows to make them. Thankful that this is still possible.

He opens his eyes and looks up. And is blindingly reminded of a time in his office when he’d looked up at Will, not dead at the hands of Tobias Budge. He’d wanted to be Hannibal’s friend, and Hannibal had rejected his overtures, not casually, but strategically. And whom he had then turned into an offering for Will, the only kind he really understood back then, one of blood and bone, and all for Will. He knows he’d looked at Will beseechingly and Will had looked like he’d understood. He’d almost reached out and Hannibal has wondered what might have shifted then if he had. If either of them had taken that particular risk and simply reached out. Would things have changed?

He must make some noise he thinks, maybe some lost mewling of relief and possibility, some of what he’d felt back then because Will pulls his head back, his hand lightly gripping on Hannibal’s hair, pulls and then bends and kisses him.

.................................

 

In the small building adjacent to the lighthouse Chiyoh closes the door quietly behind her but finds that Bedelia is sitting there, waiting for her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Bedelia looks at her calmly, no glass on the table, nothing in her hands,

“It doesn’t matter. Something happened? Something untoward? Did Will..?”

“No. He didn’t. But he has disposed of the bodies. And the boat has been towed out to sea.”

Bedelia watches Chiyoh as she slowly sits in another of the old pine chairs. They are the kind that are serviceable rather than attractive but Chiyoh has always found that there is a certain kind of beauty in utility. That there can be pleasure in form and function for its own sake irrespective of the aesthetics of the piece. Perhaps the pleasing qualities lie in its usefulness? She thinks this might be so for her, though now? Now? Now there is just a chance that she might be able to move beyond utility alone. Now that Will and therefore Hannibal are restored to life.

Bedelia doesn’t say anything further and they both sit, neither of them speaking or drinking tea or wine or even water. Bedelia rests her hands in her lap. For all that she has spent some considerable time in Chiyoh’s company she can see that she is both blisteringly direct in her choices and behaviours and is obscure, at least to Bedelia, in the various motivations that stitch these actions together. So far Bedelia has unpicked loyalty and recompense and restoration in amongst the thicket, but she remains as closed in some ways as Will is open in others.

She can’t decide which way Chiyoh would fall if she made a bid to leave. Perhaps a studied neutrality is the best that she can hope for from her? Rather than either destruction or collusion? But she just doesn’t know. And if that is the situation then it would be better to chance it and go sooner rather than later whilst there is some disordering.

And if Hannibal had thought that Will had left then there will be exchanges there for them both to navigate, both still aching for each other and not yet salved. She manages not to sneer,

“I imagine there is some making up to do. I’ll go back to bed. If there’s nothing to concern myself with? There is nothing is there?”

Chiyoh doesn’t reply so Bedelia shrugs and turns away. Chiyoh watches her walk back along the corridor to her own room. Chiyoh leans over and then rests her head on her crossed arms and closes her eyes.

............................

Kade Prurnell would rather it was someone else. Surely this should be something tasked to someone else? A deputy director maybe, or an assistant one, who ever Jack Crawford’s actual boss is. She snorts to herself as she picks her way along the corridor. Everyone, of course, is running from this one.

They’re all just like rats she thinks. And she does wonder if maybe they’ll restructure the whole BAU, integrate the profilers into other teams across the Bureau. And in particular now she’s seen the files, those two lead scientists taking the money and also running. Though perhaps they can’t be blamed, after all they’ve stuck it out for a long long time. And have the scars.

And, she thinks, now that Jack is out of the picture he’s not there to fight for it, hard to argue it’s continuing existence in its current format when it’s imploding. It might have just about managed to survive Hannibal Lecter’s trial and punishment but it may well not survive his escape or the whole abduction and possible death of Will Graham.

She met him. She inherently distrusted him. She sighs at the memory, and at his utter inability to understand the reasons behind the bureaucracy, or at least, his absolute unwillingness to acknowledge or implement the different elements that contributed to the safety net. Boundaries and safeguards, after all, are there for a reason. They’re there to keep people secure, so that they can have every confidence in their actions and keep them safe from the unanticipated outcomes of those actions. But Will Graham hadn’t understood that at all, he’d been what she thinks of as a big picture person, painting in broad strokes. Whereas she? She’s all about the little things, the little things that make up the whole. The little things that keep everything whole.

And truth be told she’s never understood the hold that Will Graham had over Jack Crawford. What he had meant to him. Perhaps it was all just obligation, and guilt and a heavy weight hanging over him for those weeks Will Graham spent in the BSHCI. And the gutting. Perhaps the guilt perched on his shoulders? Each gremlin shouting in his ear.

She shudders at the thought. Not like her to be so fanciful. But Lecter is like a virus. A spreading illness that infects everything he touches and everyone he met. Whether they lived or died. Still, she just has to accommodate the next week. Explain the process to everyone, set things in motion. And then? Then her whole part in this sorry affair will be done. All of it. Finally.

.................................

Byron Metcalfe may be a trial lawyer but the work of his firm is a tentacle of reach and influence. As he crouches like a toad in his partner’s corner office he eyes one of his assistants. And he doesn’t like at all what he is hearing.

“So, the trace we put on the file? If it pinged? If someone looked? It pinged Yeah? Did its thing.”

Metcalfe nods at him,

“So we know?”

“Probably. Well. Not exactly. They tried to be clever.”

“Yes?”

He tries for his most encouraging voice and the young man, one of his colleague’s sons, shifts around,

“For real. They used the terminal at your secretary’s desk. I don’t think it’s her. The keystroke record isn’t her habitual pattern. You know? People always use keys in a particular order? The number pad or the ones across the top, usually. Which shift key for the capitals or punctuation.”

Metcalfe interrupts him,

“You can track all that?”

The lad gnaws on his bottom lip,

“Well, honestly? I can’t. But the tech guys can. It’s Iike an electronic fingerprint. They’re looking for similar patterns across each section and department.”

“And?”

“Maybe a couple of hours, three. I think. It’s not long. Just some algorithm. Or something. Then we’ll narrow it down by time stamp and cctv will tell us for sure.”

Metcalfe nods.

“All right. Good. Thank you. I wish we’d anticipated it. Client security is everything.”

The young man nods, yeah right, even when the client is a serial killer? Apparently so.

“Sir? What will happen when we find them?”

Metcalfe smiles, not especially nastily or vicious in its appearance. More the expression of someone who is pleased that they can answer a client’s questions and address a potential issue before it cascades. He smiles a little more broadly, 

“Apart from termination?”

His assistant doesn’t start, or show surprise, and of course the phrase is open to a wide variety of interpretations.

“Apart from that Sir.”

Metcalfe smiles again, and this time it reaches his eyes, a thin line of amusement showing,

“I think that will prove quite enough. Don’t you?”

..........................................

Hannibal forces himself to pull back from the kiss.

“Not like this Will. Not when...”

His words drain away and Will stares at him, he bites out,

“What? Not how you planned it? Not quite..”

Hannibal interrupts him,

“It isn’t that. But your presence here. Your willingness. That’s what matters. Here.”

Will frowns and then his face clears and falls into a sneer,

“Well what the fuck happened to ‘not yet’?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer him but takes a half step back,

“Maybe that should translate simply to ‘not now’?”

The moment thrums and Will sighs and rubs both hands over his face,

“Always your timetable Hannibal? Always your plan? What about my schedule? What I want?”

He leans closer again and Hannibal doesn’t resist him this time. But Will only ghosts a kiss over his mouth before taking a neat sideways step and then disappearing up the stairs. Hannibal listens to see if he pauses at the next floor but he doesn’t and soon his footsteps are lost against the noise of the rain.

Hannibal closes his eyes and leans on the sink, breathing hard.

....................................

Metcalfe looks at the man standing on the opposite side of his desk. 

“I’ll ask you a further time. Who did you tell?”

The man is sullen. Sullen and sacred and Metcalfe knows he is right to be. And that it will keep a guard on his tongue for the time being.

“Mr Chine, your employment here is already forfeit. I’m sure you’re aware of that. But if you don’t tell us to whom you either sold or gave the information then we will prosecute you and more.”

The ‘more’ is freighted with meaning and heavy implication and the man visibly wilts. He’s older, maybe late fifties and Metcalfe can see the appeal in what he’s done. A little light fingered information theft. A small morsel worth its weight in gold. More probably. Metcalfe tries again,

“We know you didn’t take it to a tip line. Any of them. And really it might be better for you if you had especially if it was the Federal one. They might have looked on it more kindly. Whistleblowing even? You could have garnered some respect that way. But not like this? And not the tabloid press. They would have acted on it. So, you’ve been venal and grasping. Who?”

Chine doesn’t want to tell him, Metcalfe can see that, but he is also carrying that terrible impulse to tell, to spill it all. Metcalfe knows all about that. He lets the silence stretch. He watches and waits, and like every witness in the dock, every guilty party, the strain of silence gets too much for him to carry. Metcalfe nods to him, says quietly,

“You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. It will be a relief.”

Slowly the man unwinds it. It’s some stupid story about getting drunk with a distant cousin over thanksgiving, how he worked for Lecter’s lawyers and sure there were assets they managed, and yeah he might have taken a peek. Always possible to maintain things, shells, and trusts and bequests and that malarkey. Most of it not in Lecter’s name anymore. He could have gone it alone Metcalfe thinks, actually called the tip line with what he found out.

Patterns. And trails. And a name and a place. And a different name in another place. But a pattern. And Chine had been proud of his reverse engineering, his clever auditing skills, and his cousin had been impressed. And he’d finally looked good in the eyes of his relatives, a white collar book learner in a family of hard working blue collar men. No longer derided for the choices he’d made. Metcalfe narrows his eyes,

“I’ll grant you, you have been clever. And you made one or two quite brilliant leaps.”

The man preens a little at the praise, and Metcalfe looks at his assistant, and then glances at the two security men standing on either side of the closed office door.

“But you’ll understand you’ve broken trust with us. And by extension with our client. And we won’t tolerate that. But you’ve been forthcoming, so we’ll simply let you go.”

The man gapes at him,

“But I told you everything. And that Lecter Guy, he’s a fugitive. The other man, the press say he was kidnapped, or worse.”

“I’m aware of how the media has described Mr Graham. And irrespective of whether Hannibal Lecter is alive or dead his information is still sacrosanct. And might I remind you he was found guilty by reason of insanity. And that is quite different to a simple guilty verdict.”

The man can only gasp and blow like a fish. He thinks of his cousin, a bastard in everything but the most literal meaning of the word. And he thinks of the two sons. Also utter and total shits. He’s heard nothing from them for more than week. God. What if they’ve betrayed him? Or if the information didn’t come good? Those few weeks of thinking about it, weeks and weeks of unravelling it, checking and double checking, and then he has one drink too many and it all just comes spiralling out. Like he couldn’t contain it all. What a waste. He could have called the tip line. Any of them. Even the federal reward is good. He could still collect on it. He could. Oh. He glances up at Metcalfe and sees that he knows it too. He does. He knows he could still tell someone. He makes to open his mouth, he won’t tell, he can be trusted, he can, he can.

Except of course, he has already shown he can’t be trusted. And Metcalfe knows it too.

The lawyer smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..........................
> 
> I have angst and regret that this is late. New job, new work pattern, new levels of tired whilst they try and train me and whip me into shape (no, not that kind), and lots off time to write on the commute but not time to type... that’s what weekends are for, right? Write.
> 
> Thanks for reading. And thank you to everyone who is commenting, honestly, it’s kept me going this week. Mwah.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear, a whole chapter that is almost entirely NSFW.

Up in his own room Will drops down into an uneasy seat on the edge of his bed. He laments the almighty fuck up this night has become. He runs his hands through his hair and catches himself in the habit of it. He knows he’s furious with Hannibal, and worse, that he’s using that to mask his own fury with himself.

Maybe he should have explained? Maybe? But, really, fuck this. He’d wanted to be able to come back and, well, and fucking tell Hannibal what he’d done. For them. Like a declaration. And yeah, alright, like a challenge too.

And now it’s like finding himself back at fucking square one. Some sodding snake he’s slithered down, past all the ladders he’s not just climbed but had assiduously assembled too. He rubs his eyes and then lets himself lie back on the bed. He tries not to let any tears crowd at the corner of his eyes. But they’re there. Waiting. Lurking. It would take just one more pebble in his throat to start a spill that might drown him. Drown both of them.

The rain is still coming down outside. God. That night. That night. Now when he thinks of it everything happens as though the walls were not present, as though Hannibal’s Baltimore home had had no roof and that the rain had sluiced through them all. And that tide of blood? Mixed with water, and split and spilled from the holy side. He can hardly bear it. He wonders sometimes if Hannibal ever thinks of it. Or if or when he does think of it, how he thinks of it.

He bites the back of his knuckles and wont sob. He won’t. He can’t. 

Hannibal had simply left. Saved himself. Killed them all. Without a backward glance.

Well he hadn’t needed to look back. Not when he knew what he’d left behind. When he knew who he’d left behind.

And this time Hannibal had thought he’d been the one to flee. When ever since that fuck awful night he’s been running towards him. Even when he needed time to order his thinking, understand his reckonings, know himself. And Christ it is still true he knows himself better when he is with Hannibal than when he is alone, or when he has been with anyone else. 

He takes a deeper breath against the fingers in his mouth. He can feel his wedding ring lodged up under a tooth there, the faint taste of it a reminder of something scraping and feral, like the scream on a chalkboard, or the cry of a chair pushed across an intemperate floor. Sharp. Dissonant. And he wants none of it. God.

He struggles to get the ring off, pulls at it, pushes, and suddenly he’s desperate for it to be gone. Not for him only. But for Molly.

If he was still in Washington, or Baltimore, or Wolf Trap, or her home, he knows he might have been swayed. Fuck, with Molly it had been, not easier, not simpler, not better, just, not all the things of the previous three years. Someone who hadn’t known Beverly. Or Abigail. And mostly, mostly, someone who hadn’t known Hannibal. And who didn’t pry. And some warmth. And some other kinds of sorrows. More human ones perhaps. Or humane.

And he’d given up everything he’d been before. Every damn thing. And believed himself lucky. But how is it lucky to give up all the things that make you, you, the good all mushed in with the bad.? How is it lucky to lose yourself. He once told Hannibal it was what he most feared, and then he’d put on a ‘person-suit;, wasn’t that how Bedelia had described Hannibal, someone deporting themselves in a well tailored person suit, well, he’d tried it. And see how well that worked out? look at the almighty fuck up that was.

He gets the ring off and tries not to weight the significance of it. Just puts it on the side table, then he almost smiles at himself, maybe he can melt it down into something else. Maybe he can ask Hannibal to do it? Or they can do it together. 

Will takes another deep breath or two. Tries to persuade himself to settle. There is intermittent lightning outside and he thinks of the call he will make to the coastguard in the morning, how he can explain the boat. And shit that was an unexpected turn.

Yes he was reckless, yeah, he knows. He over-reached. Badly. Maybe he could apologise? Something? It’s never been exactly his stock in trade but he could start. It would be worth it. 

He rests his feet on the floor beside the bed, undecided. At least he can think a little more, though maybe the boat was fucked up, ok, maybe not the best idea, but at least he’s cleared the meds from his system. He’s drunk so much water over the last few weeks. Just to flush out his system of all the shit. He can feel the anger stirring in his gut again, fucking Bedelia, Christ he owes her one. And why the hell is she still here? And what will he do if Hannibal is hedging his bets again?

He struggles with that for a few minutes. When he looks back really there’s been no sign of it. Beyond some amused toleration Hannibal has all but ignored Bedelia ever since Will has been conscious enough to parse their interactions. He makes a small noise, fuck, where Hannibal is concerned he is as possessive as ever. He has been. For years. Since? Since that guy in the ambulance and Will had been furious to discover when he got home that what he wanted was Hannibal’s hands inside him, saving him. From Jack, from every serial killer resident behind his eyes. And he still almost keens over the loss of that person he had thought Hannibal was back then.

As he stands up from the bed he is suddenly hit by a wave of idea, of course the possessiveness goes both ways, it isn’t that. It’s just that everything Hannibal has done has been getting his hands inside Will, to save him or force him to save himself. He made the fight external. ‘Don’t go inside’ he’d said, ‘ don’t retreat’. And he constantly gave him somewhere to focus his attention in the concrete, in the real, the here and now, and then put himself somewhere Will would always know where he was, where Will could find him, that single constant. The single, external, ever present reality. So that Will couldn't slip away. And yes they were both marked, Hannibal didn’t want Will to have anything in his life that wasn’t him, not really, not even Abigail.. but he didn’t want anything in his life that wasn’t Will. They were both alone without each other.

Will holds onto the edge of the sliding door. God this is so fucked up. And yet? And yet, somehow it’s clearer than it’s been in a long while. He had been quietly killing himself, eating himself alive, and suddenly he realises he’s laughing at that. Fuck. Something apt there. Right there.

He heads down the stairs, and there’s some kind of resolution treacling down with him. When he rounds the final corner he physically runs into Hannibal, on his way up. For a moment they stand and stare at one another in the dim light of the stairwell. just looking.

Later, neither of them will know which of them stepped forwards first, but it hardly matters.

Perhaps it is not surprising that Will thinks it would be easier if Hannibal was angrier, and Hannibal thinks it would be easier if Will was less so, but the kiss starts uneven and they fight each other over it.

But it’s hard to keep going in a kiss against opposition, so, slowly, the nature of it changes.

Will had characterised Hannibal as a thing of aching hunger and emptiness. A maw, not only wanting, but needing to devour. To see, to touch, to taste. So sense centred. Dominated not only by the experience but by the expectation of it. Hannibal’s sharp exhalations of betrayal and brokenness have always been focussed on when those expectations have been thwarted. And Hannibal has seen it as abandonment. Will can recall every lucid waking conversation during his therapy, and that comment? So telling, in retrospect.

Will has always believed that Hannibal craves a full belly; warmth, nourishment, to be fed and satisfied by a gracious hand founded on the security of a full larder. He seeks to be replete, brimming. This is his loneliness, not of the soul but of the spirit.

The kiss begins as a fight but becomes an exploration and Will can’t help but compare it to a tasting, the work of a sommelier and critic. Maybe, he half hopes, rather hysterically, that Hannibal’s palate has been dulled by the food in the BSHCI or maybe in other ways, so that he won’t be found wanting. Even if, now that he is, wanting. Wanting.

His half hysteria loops around memories of when they first met. All those people lost to the drift between them, to the inexorable tide of grasp and release. This one? No. Not this one. This one? Not this one either. He can almost even see Alana and Bedelia in this light. Almost. Not just as a symptom of a disease called Will Graham that Hannibal vomited in blood and painted, but as an exploration in requirement, a pathology of need.

The apple he had offered Hannibal on the hillside had been half an exploration of this. And Hannibal had fed from his hand, from the absolute and absolving point of his knife. What had, what could, Hannibal take from it? Had it been temptation enough? Will had half offered, begun to offer the fruit of his own knowledge and knowing. Maybe it could be the fruit that bore life too? Maybe he could be? Maybe, just for once he could be more than simply useful but something worthy of being offered, and consumed. He reckoned he could be. Is banking on it. Really. 

He lets Hannibal pull him down the stairs and into the room below. He lets Hannibal undress him and put him on the bed. All the sheets and blankets are roughly pushed to one side and Will lets Hannibal kiss him, lets him keep kissing and stroking. He lets Hannibal slow everything right down. If Hannibal had a plan, he half laughs, if Hannibal has had some design in mind for him, for them, then there’s something in it, something to it that Hannibal thinks is worth uncovering between them. What was ‘not yet’ ‘not now’ ‘not this’ for otherwise? There had to be something? Sex? Not just sex, something else, something more, something, purposeful. Had to be. Has to be. Surely. He lets Hannibal slow them even further, even further, away from that frantic edge.

Where they stood before.

He watches as Hannibal gets his own clothes off and then moves so that he’s back on the bed, and then drawing closer so that he half covers Will, and kisses him again, hands tracing over his skin. God. So hard to focus on everything and anything, so distracting, all that touch, the eyes. God. Everything. Hannibal tasting, and touching, and kissing. He can hardly think. And maybe that’s the point. Get him out of his head for a bit. Stop observing. Himself, both of them, stop thinking. Just.

God. Hannibal just doesn’t stop touching. He doesn’t stop. And he is half hard just from the delicate skimming of skin on skin, from the lipping touch of a tongue and mouth. And fuck, Hannibal has gone nowhere near his cock except maybe an accidental brush. Nowhere near, and he feels like he might, and, oh, and he can feel Hannibal against his thigh and oh, and what about how he tastes? And.

He pushes back and is pleased and surprised when Hannibal rolls with him and arches his back when Will takes him in his mouth and sucks. Not a graceful effort all things considered, but he’s trying not to consider, just trying to be in the moment, be himself in the moment, let himself be, and what does Hannibal taste like? Oh. Like that. Like that. Salt. Bitter. And, well, like he has always imagined Hannibal tastes. Like violence. Like the violence of a true and honest friendship that has no holds on it. Like love. He tongues at the head and is amazed when Hannibal moans.

They killed a dragon like this.

Hannibal hauls him back up and kisses him some more, eases him onto his side and half into a sprawl on his front. He gasps at him,

“Will. All right?”

Will nods, he hasn’t any words left now. Where did they run off to? What’s going to happen? What does Hannibal have in mind? He wants to laugh again. In mind. It’s not in his mind, it’s in his body, in his self. Oh. Them selves, not just him, he meant it before. Conjoined. Fuck. FUCK. That’s what he meant. He meant. Did Hannibal mean that too? God.

“Will?”

“Yeah. I’m ok. Just. “

Hannibal smiles at him and for fuck’s sake what can he do with that? 

“We’ll be careful.”

Will grabs at Hannibal's arm,

“We killed a dragon. We did.”

Hannibal stares hard into his eyes, searching them, and slowly nods, leans in and kisses him again,

Then he unscrews the lid on some lube and Will watches as he warms it on his fingers. What is this going to be? Not the mechanics, he knows that, thanks, but what will it mean, what will it feel like, what will it.. His own thoughts stutter as he hears the sounds in the room, tries to be present, realises it’s him, it’s him. Sighing, and laughing, and gasping as Hannibal pushes a finger into him, then he lurches against Hannibal and against himself and breathes harder and actually, and god he might be embarrassed later but right now? Right now, he writhes on it. Oh the sounds he is making.

And his breathing labours. And that’s his heart, oh. Fuck. Hannibal. The finger moves in and out of him, it’s not his, is it? Is it? It could be, but it isn’t? It isn’t a surprise. But what is this. Oh. But Hannibal keeps kissing him and he keeps kissing back and kisses him back. Kisses him back. Oh. God. Fuck. This. This. He reaches back over his shoulder and tries to pull Hannibal closer, fuck. And the finger in his goddam fucking arse no longer feels weird but good. Good. Oh.

When Hannibal gets to adding a second finger Will begins to lose it, the stimulation on his prostate, just every occasional thrust, the sweet sounds Hannibal makes in response to Will’s desperate gasping laughing moaning breathing, the slow opening up between them and the oh so torturously slow working of those fingers, those fingers inside him, saving him, oh god, saving him. 

Will’s cock hardly knows what to do until Hannibal reaches under him and strokes and grasps and twists and fuck he’s practically all the way there but Hannibal is still a bastard because he lets go. Too soon. Too soon. And he pulls his fingers out and Will practically screams at him, and they still mouth at each other when Hannibal re-coats his fingers and pushes three in. Will is beside himself. And what the fuck does that even mean?

Hannibal reaches under him again and twists and Will moans again, and where are his hands? And fuck. He hadn’t even thought about it! But they’re full, in their own way. God. And then Hannibal slows everything down again, the thrust and pull get slower and slower. And. Oh. So close. Fuck. What?

Hannibal lets go of Will’s cock and then rubs slow circles on his abdomen, below the smile, a counterpart to the slow thrusts with his other hand. And Will wants to cry. And cry. And something. Sob. He knows he’s moaning his head off, almost weeping with it. Still stroking. Still twisting. Still thrusting. And god it’s too much.

Hannibal takes his fingers out and Will takes a few moments to realise and honestly he thinks he might kill Hannibal then and there. Until he realises that Hannibal is pushing into him. And oh. Oh. God. Oh.

Fuck.

It’s too slow. Too slow. Too. Slow. And the angle means that Will has to content himself with just holding on to Hannibal’s hip behind him. He sobs. Hannibal keeps kissing at his shoulders, his neck, breathing onto him. Pushing into him, pushing into him. So deep. Oh god. So much. So slow. Will pants desperately into the pillow beneath him.

And then everything goes still. And Hannibal holds Will who holds Hannibal. And they stay.

Will can hardly bear it. He half breathes, half almost thinks. Did he say it out loud?

“Hannibal. Please.”

Hannibal reaches around again and gently circles Will’s cock with his fingers, he thumbs at the slit and gathers some pre-come and Will knows he pulls it up to his mouth to taste. He hears the sigh breathed against his neck, then Hannibal does it again but this time he pushes his fingers against Will’s lips and he opens his mouth and sucks.

They lie like that. Half on their front, half on their side. Hannibal buried in Will, lost in him, no, not lost. Found. 

Will feels filled. Oh. He feels filled. Replete. Oh god. He realises he’s leaking against the sheets, and then Hannibal moves just a little, and it’s enough to make them both move against each other again, not against, with each other, always with each other. Always together now. God. Will realises he’s surrounding Hannibal, just as he always felt Hannibal surrounded him, it’s a re-balancing. Oh god. 

They both move a little more, and Will feels it as he begins to work himself up. And Hannibal has barely done anything, barely moved, except, except he has, he has. He worked it all out. He worked it all out. ‘Not this not this, not now, not yet’. Will clenches down hard, and sucks harder on Hannibal’s fingers, and the sparks from that ignite between them. And the sounds they both make, and the whispering, and the sobbing, and Hannibal reaches for Will’s cock again and god he will come from this, even before Hannibal murmurs in his ear,

“This is what I wanted for us Will, this. As one.”

And Will comes. And fuck. And oh god, oh jesus. It’s good. When Hannibal pulls Will’s fingers back to his mouth he opens again and sucks. Oh god. Coated in his own release. Oh fuck. Release. He has been released. He can hardly stand it. He manages a short second spurt into Hannibal’s other hand which is then rubbed into his skin, all across his abdomen. Oh god. And Hannibal is still moving so slowly against and in him. So slowly. Will pushes back against him hard, the urgency of finishing completely pushing him up and across the bed, until Hannibal makes a different noise, maybe a sound that only Will can hear, that only he could ever hear, and begins to move, and oh, fuck, that’s too much, and not enough and please god, please, and Will’s cock is so confounded and dribbles freely. And it hurts, but not enough, and too much, and oh. That. This.

“Oh god. Hannibal. Fuck. Jesus. Hannibal, fucking. Fuck.”

He tries to breathe normally around Hannibal’s fingers still in his mouth, still half sucking on them, using them as an anchor. Hannibal still half lies on him, behind him and kisses him behind the ear and murmurs,

“I’ll move in a moment. Just breathe. With me.”

They both breathe, they both do. And when Hannibal softens he pulls back and then pulls his fingers from Will’s mouth, skims them down his side and then moves to push come back inside him, Will mumbles,

“I don’t even know what you’re doing?”

He can feel a smile reveberate in the air,

“Claiming you.”

“Fuck. You did that already.”

“Not like this. Mutually.”

It makes Will sob a little. It’s true. Not like this. Will turns his head to properly see Hannibal again, then leans up and kisses him.

“All right. I get it now. What you wanted.”

Hannibal’s smile is all in his eyes.

“I’m glad you finally find me interesting Will.”

There's that playfulness again, Will could stand to see a little more of it, as long as it doesn't end in a knife, so he tries,

“Fuck off.”

He leans up and kisses Hannibal again.

“Amazing. It was amazing. All right. It was.”

“For a first time? Or should that be second?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. For any time. Was that what you wanted? Really?”

“It isn’t the sex.”

Will looks at him,

“I know that. Just the other quickest route?”

Hannibal smiles again and nods.

“As you say.”

“And effective. Was it what you wanted? From the start?”

Hannibal pauses,

“Maybe not the very first time we met. But I wondered. Certainly in the first few weeks of our acquaintance. There was a day when you came to my office and lay against the ladder. Then I knew.”

“What did you know?”

“That I would lay waste to you in every way possible to help you become yourself fully.”

Will stares at him and then blinks,

“The fuck you did.”

Hannibal almost smirks and maybe under other circumstances Will would smack him, he wants to, even now, especially now,

“Well, you have now. And you better not get bored.”

Hannibal runs a finger down the side of Will’s face.

“How could I? You are exceptional in every respect.”

“Still want me for my mind then?”

Hannibal quirks his head to one side,

“Do you still doubt that it could be otherwise?”

“At the risk of sounding peevish? Honestly? With you? Sometimes, well, who knows? And I mostly think I’ve got some kind of a handle on what you might do at any given time.”

“But only mostly?”

“Yeah. Only mostly.”

Hannibal smiles in real delight,

“Still surprising each other then?”

Will snorts,

“They say it’s the secret of a successful relationship.”

Hannibal looks at him closely,

“I do not imagine you are won Will. But for now? It is how we are.”

Will opens his eyes fully and looks at him,

“It is always how we are.”

“When you let yourself.”

Will nods, perhaps a little sadly. He doesn’t reply at first until he says,

“What’s the etiquette here? Does one of us get a cloth or something?”

Hannibal smiles and reaches across to his bedside table for a damp flannel. Will lets him clean them both up.

He settles into his usual position beside Hannibal and closes his eyes. He can feel thoughts and ideas and everything crowding back in, taking up space again. But just for a while it had felt clean. And empty. And filled. Just with Hannibal. By Hannibal. By them. They killed a dragon. Again.

He realises that the rain has stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .............................................  
> .............................................
> 
> I apologise for no updates for almost three weeks. I began a new job and was promptly unwell and whilst trying to keep going with the new job typing up was simply beyond me.
> 
> On the up side I've got the next three chapters already in long hand! (As well as having written the final 1000 words.)
> 
> On the down side I've got another 60,000 words of fic to type up from 20 different stories. I'm going to try and be sensible as I'm not quite well yet.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who sent notes on twitter or tumblr or through comments... I appreciate it, I've felt really ill.


	15. Chapter 15

“Thank you for coming to meet with us Freddie.”

“Honestly Dr Verger-Bloom. I’m hoping we might do better by each other this time around.”

Alana smiles a little,

“We’ll have to see. Do you think you’ve got anywhere?”

“I know who knows nothing?”

“A list of negatives? That’s something I suppose. You show me yours and we’ll show you ours.”

Freddie blinks,

“That’s what Frederick Chilton said to me too.”

Margot raises her eyebrows,

“Well, you’ll understand me if I say we’ve all begun to blur.”

Alana glances at her wife and continues where she left off,

“”Well let’s just say that for once we are all in perfect agreement. We’ll pay you Freddie. This isn’t pro bono.”

“All right. So, not the Lecter family. Not Molly Foster-Graham. Not any of the lab-team, no love lost there, a teeny bit of sympathy for the memory of Will Graham but not the current reality, unless he’s wherever he is against his will. Even that’s stretched thin. None of the hospital staff. Though there are still one or two unaccounted for visitors. Not Jack Crawford or any of the other Feds. Not you, or Miriam Lass.”

Alana interrupts,

“You saw her?”

“I did. Nothing. Same with Matthew Brown. Nada. Not Frederick Chilton, though he’s had some sympathy calls to his tip line, but nothing concrete. Not Reba McClane. Not Peter Bernadone or his social worker. You remember them?”

She sees Alana nod so she carries on,

“That’s the nos. These are the ‘I just don’t knows’ Will Graham Snr. he’s closer than he lets on I think. So he’s a maybe. The Japanese woman, Chiyoh? Currently off the grid entirely and only Jack Crawford ever met her. So, her. Bedelia du Maurier, also MIA and we know what happened with her last time she went off for a bit. And finally and honestly, this is a bit of a punt, but Lecter’s lawyers.”

Alana raises her eyebrows,

“Yes? Why them?”

“Only that Lecter’s will left stuff to Will Graham and when he was declared insane that little legal technicality means the will still stands and Will is going to inherit a substantial portion of Lecter’s estate. “

“Only if he’s alive to claim it and Hannibal is declared dead. And surely the insanity verdict impacts the legitimacy of the will?”

“Well yeah. Except he made that will six years ago. So, that’s moot. The point is that there are still assets. No one got as far as a civil suit so there are no wrongful death claims against the money from any of the victim’s families.”

“So, no damages.”

“No damages. If Lecter had just been found guilty he’d have lost everything. But this way? Everything has been mothballed. The court case was finished so everything was released from evidence.”

“And the interest keeps piling up?”

Freddie smirks at them both and smooths down her skirt over her knees. She crosses her legs,

“Yes it does. Both sorts.”

Alana sighs,

“So the lawyers have instructions on how to manage everything?”

“Yup. Someone, somewhere is calling the shots. Don’t you think?”

Slowly Alana nods,

“Yes, I can see that. Did any of the lawyers contact Molly Foster?”

Freddie makes a face,

“Only to tell her that despite anything she might hear in the press that she was specifically excluded from Lecter’s will. Well not her, but any marital or romantic partner of Will Graham.”

“And the will was written six years ago?”

Freddie smirks,

“Makes you think doesn’t it?”

Margot shakes her head,

“Fuck, they got her coming and going.”

Freddie nods,

“And then some. She’s done.”

“Unless Will turns up?”

“No, not even then. “

Alana interjects,

“So, Will Snr, Chiyoh, Dr Du Maurier and the Lawyers?”

“And the visitors. And believe me I’ve looked really hard for the Japanese woman. The lawyers? I’ve leant on a few of the junior associates. There was one woman looked promising but she clammed up all of a sudden.”

Alana nods,

“Will you try her again, reach out to her? Offer her any money. We’re good for it. New identity, protection. It’s worth it to us.”

Freddie shrugs,

“I can try. What else. You didn’t want to just pick my brains did you. You’ve got something in mind?”

Margot doesn’t smile,

“We’ve got two possible ways to lure Hannibal out. If they’re hiding. And together. Well, this is mainly about Will. And any pressure points he might have.”

Freddie frowns,

“His dad? Well, ok. Maybe. And Molly Graham, our of guilt? I guess. I’m not so sure.”

“We did think of her, but we thought not her, the son?”

Freddie just looks at her,

“Wally? Are you kidding? Hasn’t he been through enough? Fuck? With or without Molly Graham’s agreement?”

Alana doesn’t say anything, she just waits for Freddie to decide she wants this enough. Half an hour later they’ve thrashed out the detail, and Freddie is gone. Margot looks at her wife,

“The question is, did she buy it?”

Alana smiles,

“Freddie always thinks she’s got all the angles, I think she bought it enough.”

.....................................................................................

“Mr Williams? Thanks for coming in.”

Sean understands why the guy looks so wary. But he had agreed without too much fuss, so either his cover is impeccable or he really has no idea what this is about; And honestly? ‘Graham Williams’? someone, somewhere is having a huge fucking joke at the FBI’s expense. Surely? Surely.

Williams nods.

“That’s ok. I understand there was some confusion at the hospital. Agent Crawford said you have a missing agent. I guess that’s gotta sting.”

Brian narrows his eyes at the guy.

“I didn’t realise someone already spoke to you.”

Williams looks back and frowns at him,

“I got a call from an Agent Crawford a week ago maybe, asking if I could be available. I thought this was a follow up?”

His voice lifts at the end, just a slight inflection, making it a query. Sean and Brian exchange glances, a week ago Jack Crawford was in the ICU. Still is.

“Did you actually meet with Agent Crawford?”

Sean sees the look of confusion on William’s face, he tries a smile to reassure the guy, though the churning in his own gut is something he hopes doesn’t show on his face.

“Sorry, yeah. Agent Crawford’s indisposed right now, he had a heart attack. We’re trying to make sense of his notes, and the instructions he left.”

Williams’ face clears.

“Oh. Right. I get it. Sorry about that. He seemed ok. I met him. Sure, he was super good about it, came to my place and everything. Gave me his card.”

He fishes in one of his jacket pockets and pulls out what looks like one of Jack’s business cards from his wallet and lays it on the desk between them.

Brian reaches for it and pulls it closer using the end of his pen.

“Mind if I keep this?”

He doesn’t wait for Williams’ to answer but slips it into a glassine evidence envelope, he puts a sticker across the folded closure, signs and dates it and then passes it to Sean to counter sign. Wordlessly Sean signs on the line and passes it back whilst Brian writes out an evidence receipt which he pushes back across the table towards Williams. Williams looks bewildered again but he takes the receipt and puts it into his wallet, where the card had been. He pockets it.

Sean watches his face carefully,

“Can you tell me what you told Agent Crawford?”

Graham Williams goes through a slow story about an illness, about people at his church praying for his recovery, or a big donation, them being good folks raising money for his hospitalisation. He repeats himself a few times, mucks up the timeline. He’s either really good, or really honest. And yeah. Graham Williams is his real name, but they’ll have to check that out. And he’s got the medical records to just show how ill he really has been.

They take him through it a few times, but overall, even with the muddles, his story is the same. Anonymous donation to the church and then into hospital he goes. Sean asks about the plastic surgery on his face but Williams seems as bemused about that as whoever dropped a hefty dollar amount into the church coffers just to see him right. They’ll have to check with the guy who does the church accounts. And the pastor maybe.

Brian asks again about the guy Williams met,

“Agent Crawford? Tall, African American I guess, Soul patch. Greying a little, not surprising the work you do, stuff he must see. Well built, stocky. Hard as nails. Maybe ex military, he had the look. Why you asking?” he gets a look across his face “You think it wasn’t him? Its why you took the card.”

“We’re just checking it’s our guy. Can’t be too careful. Too many doubles, you understand.”

Williams looks worried again,

“He told me I look a little like your guy, mistaken identity. I’m sorry about that, really, if he got took.”

He looks sincere and they part amicably enough. When Brian comes back from escorting him out of the building he and Sean look at each other.

“What the fuck Brian. What the actual total fuck? I mean, obviously, the planning is insane in regards of Williams, but what’s with the doppelganger for Jack?”

Brian shrugs,

“Checking the story is holding? Checking the story, period? Doesn’t have to be..”

He tails off.

“Well fuck. We’re no further forwards. It still could be all Lecter, or Jack’s ‘friend’ Chiyoh, or someone else, like the Verger-Blooms. We’re going round in circles.”

“Not a journo? Lounds has got friends.”

Brian frowns and waggles his hand in the air.

“Maybe. But if that’s the case there’s been nothing on tatlecrime and I’d expect something on the wire somewhere.”

Sean runs a hand through his hair. It’s a gesture they seem to have inherited from each other in the team, maybe it’s just the gesture of desperate men and women everywhere.

“Though in a sense at least we’re cutting things down. At least we’re checking people off the initial list. Aren’t we?”

Brian shrugs again.

“All the leads? Sure. We’re talking to them. But you notice how every time we check one thing out it just means there’s way more that’s unclear?”

He stops and looks down at his hands on the desk. One nail is black. He must have caught it at some point. He can’t remember. Now he’s noticed it can feel the dull throb of blood caught and pooling. Blood looks black in so many places.

“Lecter was big on the classics. You know. Antiquity? And Dante and so on. Symbolism. You know about the bloody heart left in Palermo?”

Sean nods,

“Tarot thing wasn’t it?”

Brian agrees with a short smile, 

“Yeah. We got some fortune teller Jimmy knows to come in and look at it. He looked shook by the whole thing. I’m wondering though.”

He stops again.

“What? What’s caught you?”

Brian looks at him,

“Is this some myth? I mean, if it’s Dante it could be the different circles of hell couldn’t it? Or some story, this is like a Hydra isn’t it? You cut off one head and then there’s more? Like the labours of Hercules?”

“What? And different parts of this are different elements? Really? Did he plan it all for this long?”

“He had three years in prison. During the trial? He could see what was going to happen. What else was he doing with his time?”

Sean closes his eyes. And they both breathe. The room is stale, the air recycling along with their thoughts and panic and fear. 

“It all kicked off after the verdict didn’t it?”

“No. That’s when we’re meant to think it kicked off.”

“You think that was a feint?”

“I think the Red Dragon was the feint? Like in the hospital. We’re looking at the most obvious thing. Red Dragon, pulls Will back in. Pulls him right back in. But really? When was Will pulled in?”

Sean looks at him consideringly, slowly, slowly he says,

“Before my time? Yeah. Ok. Before my time.”

Brian nods at him.

“Well before your time. You remember the Minnesota Shrike case?”

Sean sighs,

“Please tell me this hasn’t been in the works since then?”

Brian sighs back, a long low mournful sound.

“What do you think?”

“I think. Fuck. I think we get Jimmy on the fingerprints, and we get some classicist to look at the last six years.”

He pauses a moment,

“Actually, I think we get a theologian or a religious scholar in on it too.”

Brian frowns,

“Ok, but spell that out for me.”

“The Red Dragon features in the Book of Revelation right? The last book of the canonical Christian bible. It’s also called the Apocalypse, you know?”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I know that. Anyway. Apocalypse means end times, and you’re saying that it began during the Shrike case, the Genesis?”

Brian looks excited for a moment but then sighs again,

“You think it will tell us something? Or just be a red herring. Something Lecter had in mind to amuse himself with.”

“Well maybe, but you get inside the mind of someone like Lecter it makes it easier to catch him.”

Sean still looks pleased, but then he isn’t leaving in a few weeks time. Brian nods,

“Will Graham said that the way he caught Lecter was by letting him kill him. And look how that’s turned out.”

Sean slumps in his chair,

“This is just a nightmare. All right. You gonna get Jim on the finger prints?”

He nods towards the little evidence bag.

“Yeah. You know it’ll either be clean or have Jack’s actual prints on it?”

“At least if they’re Jack’s we can probably say it’s Lecter. Or Alana Bloom. She’s still got an in and an interest.”

“Or Freddie. Or Chiyoh. Or anyone Jack’s met over the last six years and gave a card to. Including all the victim’s families.”

They both slump then. 

All right. I’m on the church guys. You still looking at the visitors?”

Sean shrugs and then brightens a little,

“Take the stills from the CCTV to the church. Maybe Will’s visitors were from the church? Maybe there was some kind of deal to get their guy’s operation sorted and everything?”

“Or they were genuinely visiting who they thought was Williams? Yeah? Ok. Good thinking. I’ll have a lean on them a bit. Maybe. Who do you think might have been the contact?”

Sean shrugs again,

“Honestly? No idea, but we gotta ask. And, fuck, try and track down the fake Jack.”

..........................................................

Will Graham Snr sits reading in his trailer drinking from a bottle of bud, the cap lying on its back, a dent to it. The table bears the scars of hundreds of such cap pops though these days he has an opener he uses.

It’s pretty late so he’s surprised when there’s a knock on the door. Even more surprised that it’s Freddie Lounds.

“Ms Lounds? Evening call is it? I thought you were done with me and all.”

“I thought I was too. You going to ask me in or let me get damp out here?”

They stand and regard one another for a moment or two until Will Snr holds the door open a little wider and ushers her in.

He indicates the table,

“There’s beer. Or water. Or coffee.”

She starts to say no, but then changes her mind,

“I’ll take a beer, thanks.”

When he pops the top and they’re both seated she tries for a look at the book he is reading, he turns it round so she can see. She frowns, not what she was expecting. Will Snr smiles a little,

“Hannibal sent it. For my birthday, couple years ago. Thought I’d be interested.”

“He’s sending you books?”

“Better than Bedelia Du Maurier. He sends her recipes.”

Freddie blanches,

“That’s incredibly creepy. Don’t you think?”

“He’s a creepy guy.”

She takes a long swallow of the beer. Honestly is psychopathy inheritable? He watches her upend the bottle and take several long swallows, silently he gets up and retrieves another pair from the little table top fridge on top of the counter.

When she seems done with her first he opens the second and pushes it across the table, he tips his head to one side,

“All right then. Spit it out. It’s not my night time reading that has you like this. This isn’t your usual is it. And I don’t mean the beer.”

She wrinkles her nose a little.

“I’m in several minds about something.”

“And that’s unusual isn’t it?”

She takes a pull on the second bottle and watches him,

“You’re quite like him you know.”

Will’s dad just takes another few sips from his own bottle. Still on his first. Her question, such as it is, is hardly worth an answer, so he just waits whilst she makes up her mind.

“Look. I think he saved my life. Once at least. Maybe more than once.”

Will Snr inclines his head.

“At least three times. But, he wasn’t counting.”

She nods a few times, fiddles with her bag, with the bottle and then with her hair, pushing it behind an ear. He waits her out. He was, still is, a good fisherman too, like his boy. So like his boy.

She makes up her mind.

“It’s not really in my interests. I know that. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. But I maybe owe Will Graham. A little. Or a lot. Depending.”

She stops and he carries on waiting while she fiddles again. When it comes though, it comes all in a rush, like a fish that stops struggling on the line and lets itself be landed, tired from the fight,

“I saw the Verger-Blooms, They’re going to try to provoke Lecter out of hiding. Will too. Or through Will. Something.”

Will Snr nods, it makes a kind of sense he supposes, a business person’s perspective, to get ahead of the competition. If it was him he’d leave well alone. But that’s not their way. Freddie isn’t done.

“They might take you. But I think it’s more likely they’d go for Wally Foster.”

Will Snr looks at her and raises an eyebrow,

“They told you this?”

“I think they were hoping for maximum coverage. Lecter likes his own press notices. And, well, my track record is either very on point or not, depending on your point of view.”

“They wouldn’t expect you to jeopardise the hits.”

She shakes her head,

“They wouldn’t. But don’t get this wrong, or me.”

He smiles and finishes the last of his first bottle. Takes a mouthful of the second.

“You’ll get the hits however this falls out. But this salves your conscience.”

“I think most people would say I don’t have one.”

Will Snr eyes her,

“You’re a bit like Will yourself. Protective. Only of certain people. A very small category I’d say. The Hobbs girl, a bit, maybe. Those abducted kids.”

She frowns,

“Ok. Maybe. Some kids. The really vulnerable. There was a guy caught up in some terrible case..”

She trails off but Will Snr holds up a hand,

“You mean Peter? Sure. Will wrote to him a long time.”

Her eyes widen,

“Did he? I didn’t know that.”

He shrugs at her, takes another drink.

“Why would you? Bernadone. Nice guy. Quiet. Focussed. I liked him.”

She goggles a bit,

“You’ve met him too?”

Will Snr smiles,

“Once or twice. When Will couldn’t. We played checkers mainly. Went fishing. Good ramble. He’s an interesting guy.”

“Damaged.”

He eyes her again,

“Aint we all?”

She concedes the point but he adds,

“He doesn’t know where they are. Either of them. Or if they’re together. I know Will won’t have told him. There’s nothing there.”

“And you don’t know if he’s with Lecter?”

“I can only hope he is.”

She widens her eyes again,

“You know how terrible that sounds don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m not schooled but I’m not stupid. But Will tempers Hannibal, and Hannibal? Hannibal accepts Will as he is. So, yeah, I hope they’re together.” He sighs. “So you’re warning me? And what? You want me to tell Molly?”

Freddie nods,

“I think they might be watching me.”

“Tapped your phone too? I guess they’ve got the resources and the connections.”

“And it might be more natural for you to be in touch with her. Face to face.”

He nods slowly,

“Sure. I can do that. She don’t like me much. But she’ll listen. And they’d be stupid to take me. Will and I? We’re good. But he wouldn’t break cover for me. I know it. He knows I know it. And we’re still ok. Molly? Probably not. But Wally? Maybe. Ok. I’ll set it up. Now if you like.”

She nods so he grabs his cell and shrugs on a jacket and takes it outside. She watches him walk up and down, in and out of the sodium pool of light cast from one of the few street lights in the trailer park. Skirting the darkness. Or the light. Depending on how you look at it.

.......................................................

Jimmy packs another box full of stuff from his desk. He has spread the task out over several weeks, amazed really at how much has accumulated over the years. He wonders if he feels any regrets at all, writing himself out of the story like this. He has a flash on the time when Jack called him and Brian into his office and sat them down, greyed beyond his years, and told them about Bev. No he thinks savagely, no fucking regrets at all. None. Even if the new Agent in Charge seems ok. Even if it looks like Jack could go either way still.

He only has another week to go. Brian has three. Holiday not taken, sick days, everything carried over? It all adds up. He’s not quite counting the days. Fuck. He’s counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds. The worst of it is, the very worst is that he’s not sure, still not really sure if he’s actually making it out alive after all. Even if he is still breathing.

He takes that deep breath and relishes it. Brian is off at some church following what he half hopes is a dead end. He flinches a little at his own phrasing. A dead end? A dead end. Fuck.

................................................

Byron Metcalfe steeples his hands against his chest,

“On the tip-line? Ours?”

His assistant nods,

“Yes. Ours. About the Fosters.”

Metcalfe nods,

“A double bluff? To see if there is activity? Or if there isn’t.”

The assistant nods again,

“Yes. To see if we tell the Fosters or do anything else in relation to them. Or we tell. Well. You know. And what that suggests.”

Metcalfe nods, swings around in his big comfty leather office chair,

“Man or woman on the line.”

“Man. Older I’d say..”

Metcalfe nods,

“And the FBI are sniffing around the church?”

His assistant nods and glances down at his tablet,

“An Agent Zeller.”

“Yes? Well, there are no loose ends there I think. Anything else?”

“Not that I know of Sir. I’ll keep you informed if there is.”

He backs towards the door,

“Is that everything?”

Metcalfe waves him off and swivels in the chair to look out of the window. Debating. Probably Will Graham Snr on the line. In which case the smartest option open to him, and almost certainly he will go direct to Molly Foster, obviating their need to. He wonders who told Will Snr? The number of possible candidates are few and far between. Maybe the journalist. The Verger Blooms would want her on side. In which case this is either a very clever play on Ms Lounds’ part or she is genuinely concerned. Or indignant, or more. But this represents a new phase in their activity, actively trying to lure Will Graham out. Or, perhaps trying to establish where they should cast a lure. Or..

He swings round a little and considers the options. Perhaps he will do what he has always done and just communicate the entirety of the information available to him at this point. His client has always been able to read into the actions and intentions of those around him. Metcalfe knows himself to be exceptionally acute. But Hannibal Lecter genuinely was, and, if his surmise is correct, is, usually the smartest person in the room. Though Will Graham could give him a run for his money.

He smirks a little to himself. Hasn’t that been the case all of the last six years? Will Graham giving Hannibal Lecter a good run for his money? 

He swivels back round fully so he’s sitting behind his desk again, makes a call and then composes a lengthy email. He edits it once or twice and then clicks send.

Very well.

.........................................................................

Molly Foster watches her father-in-law pitch a few snowballs at Wally and the dogs. Winston whines for his attention as though he’s convinced it’s actually Will come for visitation rights. She’s grateful for the warning, and furious about it. And doesn’t know quite what to do about the offer from the lawyer. She’s smart enough to recognise its value even if she doesn’t like its cost. And she thinks they’ll take it. Let Hannibal Lecter pay for her safety, she paid for his, after all. Quid pro quo Dr Lecter, quid pro fucking quo.

.........................................................................

In the morning Will turns over in bed. Hannibal is still asleep beside him. Will runs a finger down his nose a few times until Hannibal twitches awake and makes a face. Will actually smiles.

“I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”

Hannibal nods and quirks a look at him,

“What is it?”

Will tries really hard not to laugh.

“I’m sorry. This is terrible. But. A while ago? I asked Bedelia if you were in love with me?”

Drily Hannibal replies,

“She mentioned it.”

“I bet. Anyway, she said yes in a typical roundabout way. Quoted Dante at me.”

“Atta girl.”

Will rolls his eyes,

“Yeah. Right. Ok, Anyway, she asked if I ached for you.”

There’s a pause and instead of replying Hannibal closes his eyes against Will’s laugh as he disappears out of the door and down the stair case, but he’s back a few moments later,

“Chiyoh says Bedelia and the boat are gone.”

Hannibal blinks slowly and then smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you taking some kind of break over the holiday season, I hope it's a good one... and thank you very much for reading xxxx


	16. Chapter 16

“I don’t know what else to tell you. The church treasurer picked the people off the ccctv stills straight off. No hesitation at all. Members of the congregation. Solid. Reliable. Long term. Devoted. And so on.”

Jimmy and Sean frown at Brian,

“You’re going to have to see them too aren’t you?”

Brian shrugs at Jimmy. 

“I think so. We better. No stone unturned and all that. This is just so..”

He trails off and Sean leans forward from where’s he’s leaning against a bench in the lab.

“Planning.”

It’s all he says but the other two men just nod in reply. Yeah, planning. Insane levels of detail and planning, always. Always. Planning. Could almost be Lecter’s middle name. 

“Point. So. Planning. Detail. Obsession. Ok, we’ll see them. Sean?”

His colleague nods and they agree a rough timetable. Jimmy sighs and then stretches in his seat,

“Drink tonight? 7pm? A few of the other techs?”

Sean nods,

“Three days Jim?”

Jimmy Price nods. Three fucking days. 56 hours actually if any one is counting, and honestly he goddam is. Brian too. Maybe. faintly he has wondered over the last week or so if there is any way in hell that Hannibal might know, and if he does what he might think of Jimmy’s exit, stage left, not pursued by a bear. Jim has no illusions, his simulacrum of a friendliness with Hannibal in the past won’t save him if that’s the way Hannibal leans. Neither is he interesting enough to save or rude enough to regret. He hopes. He really hopes. And didn’t he always get on Ok with Will? 

Maybe it’s enough? Possibly.

............................

Freddie counts her blessings. Not dead yet. Still kicking. Still generating ad revenue. Still calculating all the odds. And what she’s decided to call her conscience is salved. Molly Graham has been warned, and she’s not too fussed if the Verger Blooms know it was her. That has its own upside too. She wonders a little about the lawyer, and then, about the others on her sliding greyscale of yes, to possibly, to not sure, all the way through to not a chance in hell. The Japanese woman, the visitors, yeah she should get on them, the lawyer? He nags at her. And Bedelia du Maurier. Not just a greyscale of involvement but of intent. Maybe a two way axis? How involved and for or against. She ponders this a little. Could she make something of it? In a story? One year on? That’s not far off?

She tracks through her own notes. Yeah. The visitors, and maybe the lawyer? There’s something about all that. Who you tell, who you don’t tell, what happens when you do or don’t tell. All that. Even nothing happening, or seeming to can tell you.. she eases back in her chair. Glances round the cafe where coffee and adrenaline have been fueling her last sixty minutes. She looks back at her cell and sends off a few messages in quick succession. Yeah. Visitors first. Or the lawyer.

She gets up and leaves, making sure she drops a tip in the cup on the counter as she does so. Paying it forwards. Because, who knows?

..................

Will Snr goes through the mail at his P.O box. He checks it fairly regularly. Bills. Circulars. Almost never any personal post. There’s a reminder from his dentist. A flyer from some church. A magazine Will got him on subscription a few years ago. All the while he goes through the pile he carefully doesn’t pay any attention to the truck casually pulled up further along the pulloff in front of the few stores and shop fronts. It’s kind of what he anticipated. Freddie tells him about Molly, he warns Molly about the threat to Wally, and really it’s him they’ve got their eye on. 

He discards most of the circulars, pockets the note from the dentist and the church flyer, and rolls up the magazine, slots it into his inside waistcoat pocket. Of course, there’s also a question of who might have got their eye on him. Halt. Who goes there friend or foe. Or even someone somewhere in between. The lawyer probably knew it was him who left the tip on the line. Will Snr smirks, he better know, he’s paid enough to make those kinds of guesses. Hannibal and Will? The Verger-Blooms? Even that other guy, the burned to a crisp one. The shit who fucked around with Will in the hospital. Him. Or the Feds.

If they try and take him he won’t fight it. He knows they won’t kill him. He’s useful alive. All that good proof of life shit. So, if it’s unfriendly eyes on him they won’t kill him. And yeah, they might hurt him. But, well. He can stomach most things. He smiles a little. Both Will and Hannibal have had to stomach a fair amount. He’d be in good company at least.

He slides into his own truck. Waits a beat or two and then checks his mirrors and pulls out. He sees the other truck ease out a few vehicles back. So, yeah, right, they’re for him alright. He smiles a little, wonders if Freddie knew or at least suspected she was being used to decoy his attention. Wonders if she cares at all. Wonders if Will or Hannibal will. And how much. When they find out. When. Not if.

There’s a bit of him that would like to call their bluff, who ever it is, but maybe it’d be better to keep an eye. He drives the twenty minutes back to a yard where he has some piece work for a few months, covering for some guy who dropped an engine on his leg in the pit. Broke in three places. There’s something about the truck. Something.

He grins. Of course. It’s a decoy in itself. There will be others watching or waiting. He’s meant to spot these guys. Keep an eye on them, wait for their move. He grins. He watched some film with Will when he was a kid like this. Clever. But he is his son’s father. And of course a decoy and grab team might also be being surveilled. So maybe he’s under multiple rounds of scrutiny. He should do something interesting then. Make them earn their money. Make it worth their while.

.............................

Bedelia has left letters for both of them. Hannibal actually smiles at whatever is in his. He watches as Will is by turns angry and indignant at whatever Bedelia has chosen to say to him. He stretches and goes to the nearest window, the rain is still blathering, but the way the cloud moves suggests it will clear, he can see blood in the dawn. Chiyoh draws his attention back into the room.

“The coastguard already believes the boat lost. We need change nothing. Even if it is found this may still ring true.”

Hannibal shrugs.

“We should consider that she will have left it somewhere docked and when it is found there will be questions. I will speak to the coastguard, explain she left in some family emergency, that we thought the boat wrecked not taken. And we have nothing to gain by following her. At some point her re-entry into the world will be noted. Will?”

Will looks up from the two sheets of paper. He can almost taste her snide humour at his expense in the ink.

“There’s no rush. Is there. I hope she feels haunted.”

“Not hunted?”

Will almost smiles.

“I know which is worse.”

............................

Sean sighs as he goes through his notes yet again. Honestly. Honestly? It’s almost a year. There’s nothing. No leads. Only this business with the church. And really that’s just dotting the ‘i’s’ and crossing the ‘t’s’ isn’t it. 

Why can’t anyone let it be? It’s all just jumping through hoops. Jimmy is almost done. Brian too. Jack? Fuck knows.

He knows they’ve all been caught in the tornado of Hannibal Lecter. He’s a disease they all caught, and only now are they even beginning to recover from. Past the infectious stage he thinks, no longer contagious. Not better yet. But recovering. When you’re no longer actively actually ill but you’re still weak and kind of hollowed out from it. Tired. And when your vulnerable to a secondary infection, or a relapse.

He sits up a little straighter. It wouldn’t take much for this all to spiral. Just a nudge. He’s so fed up with metaphors and analogies. But this is like that chess thing zugzwang? When you know how it will end, how it must end, but you still have to play it out. Have to, like a compulsion.

He thinks about the pieces. Jimmy coming off the board, Brian. Jack in a stalemate off in one corner. Freddie Lounds fucking all over the place. He thinks of all the pieces tipped over, fallen, removed from play.

They’ve got that theologian and classicist looking at the last six years. Maybe, he thinks, maybe they should talk to a proper chess player. Someone who really can see. He moans quietly to himself seeing it before he even sees it.

The game isn’t over yet. Oh god. The game isn’t over. There’s more. 

.........................

Bedelia Du Maurier carefully picks her way across the tarmac. The small aeroplane, doing one of the shortest scheduled flights in the world landed and took off on time, and then landed again. Also on time. Even though now, the fog is rolling in. She has another connecting flight. And then another. And then another. And no one has tried to stop her, and barely anyone has even looked at her passport or visa.

In all, the journey could take as much as 48 hours. Then, just a quick turn around in Baltimore and on again. But she’s almost willing to bet that Hannibal will make the decision to let her go. And at least she has a head start if he doesn’t. She estimates that it could be anything between eleven and maybe 24 hours. If she’s very lucky and the coastguard can’t get anything to them immediately. And isn’t suspicious. Which he might be when the boat eventually turns up.

She collects her bag and takes a deep breath. Thinks about Jack Crawford and the optimal time to contact him. Playing both sides of the board has become something of a cliche to her, but needs must when the devil drives. She twitches her face at the thought. Ridiculous. Hannibal is all too human. Though Will? Will may be an incubus.

............................

Freddie smiles at the lawyer, Metcalfe smiles back. An impasse then.

“Ms Lounds. Like my client I have a certain admiration for your tenacity. And your cheek. But I’m reasonably sure you recognise a story dying on its feet and a trail going cold. I understand you’re reliable that way. If there is something to be found you’ll find it. Is there?”

Freddie twitches her nose.

“Beyond what I’ve generated? Or the Verger Blooms? There are still a few leads.”

“I’m afraid this one goes nowhere. Every aspect of my work in this regard is scribed in public records. Somewhere.”

Freddie concedes that, ‘somewhere’ is probably true.

“I’m sure you know the Verger Blooms are hoping to liven things up a little?”

“In an attempt to lure out someone who may very well be dead or is at best laying very low? I cannot imagine what world they inhabit if they think that could possibly end well.”

She shrugs,

“Preemptive strike. Wouldn’t you say?”

The lawyer smiles. Freddie pursues it.

“I’m not sure what else they’ve got.”

Metcalfe nods at her,

“Indeed. And that seems to be so for all of us. I at least am well paid for what I do and do not have in this regard.”

She looks at him closer,

“Not so un-alike then.”

She gestures between the two of them. He shrugs.

“There’s only so far nothing can take you Ms Lounds. You wanted this meeting. I hope you understand I agreed because I can give you nothing. There is nothing to give.”

Freddie frowns,

“In my line, even the absence of a thing can be a thing.”

“I’m sure that’s true. Perhaps that’s what you’ll have to be content with. An empty space. A speculation. A nothing. An absence.”

They both seem to conclude that this is the end of the conversation. In the elevator down from his nice corner office Freddie wonders if maybe the lawyer was saying something, something quite specific, about nothing.

.......................

Brian glances at Sean as they sit down carefully in the front room of the woman who was clearly one of Will’s visitors in the hospital. Or Graham’s. Both actually. She’s in the kitchen making tea or coffee, some hot drink. She’d fussed slightly when they brought the chill in with them. It’s not snowing but there is a promise of it, that faint metallic tang on the air.

They both look round the room. A largish portrait photo above the mantelpiece shows her and one of the men who also visited Will. Husband and wife by the look of it. Solid. Slightly dull looking, ordinary lives somehow twined into this case.

She bustles back in bringing a tray with her. Fusses over the cream and sweetener, cookies.

“I’ve never had dealings with the police before. I’d say it was a little exciting except that’s probably a mite insensitive.”

They take their drinks, smile, make polite mouth noises. They admire the furnishings, she talks about the people in the many framed photos. Talks about the church choir. Asks them about their own faiths. Brian wonders if she’s more astute than her fluffyness suggests, Sean wonders about the church.

They agree that they’ll drop by and meet her husband, hand over their cards. All that. Back in the car they don’t speak for the first five minutes as they drive away. Sean looks at Brian, his hands firmly at eleven o’clock on the steering wheel.

“Something off wasn’t there?”

Brian says slowly,

“I think so.”

Sean looks out the window, snow just beginning to drift down, circling, chilling.

“Is it? What am I asking? Is it starting up again?”

Brian risks a quick look at him,

“It didn’t stop. There was just a lull.”

Sean considers this for a few minutes. The ticking of the windscreen wipers marking time. The metronome of commuters and travellers everywhere.

“It’s why you’re out.”

It’s a statement and not a question.

“I’m not out yet. Not out enough. And still it’s coming down.”

They don’t talk again for the rest of the drive. Brian concentrates on the road and the snow. Back at Quantico they find the temporary Agent in Charge and a couple of the other guys who have been dragged into the vortex.

No one leaves the office happy, Jack may not be dead but his ghost hovers in the corners of the room. Lamenting.

Back in the lab Jimmy listens while Brian and Sean talk quietly about the woman they met. Too much the sum of her parts. Sean is more animated when he says,

“We’ll have to check her out. Every little thing. There will be a connection. Somewhere between her and Lecter, or her husband, or the church, someone. Going back. Probably a long time. A contingency. He’ll have had a contingency plan. Like a sleeper cell, ready and waiting. If needed.”

Brian and Jimmy exchange looks, they can see the disease, fever bright in Sean’s eyes. Infected. Like they all were.

...........................

Jimmy sits in Jack’s hospital room. He’s been showing signs of waking up. Jimmy isn’t really sure how he feels about that. He’d almost rather he was gone. Actually, either of them, both of them, now he thinks about it. It might be better for Jack to go this way. Hasn’t his heart and life already been broken? 

But the will, and the body, and every loose line that connects us to the world seems to be still be wrapped around Jack, tethering him. And what will he do when he does wake up?

Hannibal might be gone, or lost, or just not here. But there are others. All of them straws that one by one seem like nothing. But you can get buried beneath them, suffocate on all that dust, be crushed by the cumulative weight.

Jimmy shakes himself. He can count the hours on his hands now.

He feels slightly desperate.

.................................

Late that evening, after hanging out at his usual bar for a single long necked beer Will Snr goes back to his trailer. The sodium light outside his place is on the fitz and it makes sparky noises. It’s dimmer than usual. But it comes and goes so he doesn’t think that’s anything to worry about too much. Someone might have been inside but there’s nothing for them there.

Once indoors he sets the tiny heater going, sets a kettle to boil from one of the few mains plugs he has, then shoves some leftovers into the microwave to re-heat. He smiles. The food is ok, but Hannibal would hate the microwave and its countdown to nuked food. Tough. Will Snr spreads out the magazine across the small table top and whilst he waits for his dinner and the kettle he flips through it. Will began the subscription almost three years ago. Just when Hannibal was a year into both the trial and his incarceration. So Will Snr checks the ads, and checks the classifieds. Nothing in there. Nothing he can see. Both Hannibal and Will have used it before. But there’s nothing this edition. He looks at the dentist’s letter and checks the number, website and email against his own, everything matches. 

He looks at the church flyer. Looks innocent enough. Just some circular advertising fellowship, healing, community. But it’s a little way away and really it being personally addressed and the like is something that gives him pause. That and the name of the Church. 

The Blood of the Lamb Evangelical Fellowship.

That alone is enough of a coincidence for it to make him wonder. He checks the service times for the coming weekend. One of them has been circled. Hard to tell if that’s printed on or if someone has added it. All right then. Church it is.

...........................

Will looks Hannibal over. His hands still in Hannibal’s hair.

“Is this how it’s going to be then?”

“Forwards always seems to carry more momentum.”

Will pulls himself up out of the circle of Hannibal’s arms.

“And yet we constantly walk in a palace of memories.”

“And make our world anew. The past beats inside us like a second heart.”

Will sighs then dips his head to kiss Hannibal again.

“Brave new world.”

It’s Hannibal who pulls back a little.

“When it has you in it.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me. That hasn’t been our stock in trade.”

Hannibal almost smirks,

“Perhaps it should be.

Will frowns,

“Chiyoh? Or Bedelia?”

“Perhaps a little of both. And also you.”

“Just when I could imagine finding a little flavour.”

................................

The building looks both cold and emptied. It gives off the kind of feeling when a place or a person is in limbo. Stuck between worlds. Stuck between existences. Between the slats of the blind she can just make out that what furniture there is has been shrouded in dust sheets. There’s no alarm system that she can see. Is that hubris she wonders, or is it more that the worse that can happen either already has or will happen regardless of any electronic or human security.

Freddie tries one of the patio doors. It’s locked. She sighs, it would be fucking stupid for it to be unlocked. But it’s not an impossible hurdle to climb over. She fiddles around in her fanny pack and attaches her small torch to the watch cap she’s pulled on to cover her hair. This time she’s a little careful about what she leaves behind. Bedelia Du Maurier might be a little less happy to find traces of her here. The lock takes her a frustrating forty minutes and only gives itself up in tiny increments. Normally she’d have no patience for it. But she can just sense that it’s possible the story and the trail is cooling. And not just because of the hint from the lawyer. Well, hints. Plural.

There’s some other terrible killer. And really that’s starting to attract attention. The next big thing in the killing fields of the eastern US. But it’s hard to give up everything she’s invested in this story. So nearly nearly the biggest scoop of her life. So nearly. And it still could be. Maybe. 

When the lock gives she lets out the long breath she’s been holding. Turns down the torch to its lowest setting and steps inside the doorway. She hunkers down for a moment just to look for tiny light emitters, or rugs with pressure pads. But there’s nothing to suggest covert security. She straightens up again. And then pulls her small revolver from her pack. That is a lesson she has learnt. Finally. She moves carefully around the room, lifting the corner of the dust sheets as she goes, just to see what’s underneath.

Just furniture. High end. Clean. Very Dr. Du Maurier she thinks. Someone for whom the phrase cool customer could have been invented. But no paperwork. Nothing. Empty of anything too personal. More like a fancy rental place than anything else. 

She gives it ninety minutes. By the time she’s swept the whole house the light outside is beginning to suggest that the night is giving up its sway to daylight. When she hears a quiet noise in the entrance hall she just has time to think that maybe there was surveillance after all, then a woman comes into the room and switches on the main overhead lights.

They stare at each other. Freddie drops the gun she’d instinctively pointed at the woman down by her side. She watches the woman watching her. Damn if her instincts haven’t still not deserted her, she’s still got the nose for it. Who is this?

“You’re trespassing Ms Lounds. I’d be within my rights to shoot you. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

Freddie catches sight then of the gun that this woman is holding, trained on her. A gut shot Freddie thinks. It’d be a gut shot. Fuck. She swallows hard.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

But she does. And it’s a total surpise. Like Stammetts coming out of nowhere and shooting that police guy. Freddie grabs the dust sheet off one of the chairs as she slides down. After that first momentary shock bring shot really hurts. She holds her side utterly aware of everything spilling from her. Was this what it was like? In that other house in Baltimore?

Neither of them speak, Freddie because she can’t, the woman because she chooses not to. This isn’t, Freddie desperately thinks, this isn’t how it ends for her. It can’t be. She’s faintly aware of the woman leaving, of the front door clicking softly closed.

She’s not sure how long she lies there. God dying is boring and painful and exhausting. She’s pretty sure that she’s not quite awake and not asleep and still not dead. She tries to hold on to that thought. Even if it’s slippery. Some semblance of time passes.

She doesn’t.

At some vague distance she can hear someone speaking to her. 

She can just about hear sirens. In the distance, still, but getting closer.

She remembers a big black box. From before. A face looms into her vision.

Oh. Bedelia Du Maurier. Gone for a year and now returned. In her own fucking home. An absence filled. Was this what the lawyer was not saying? Freddie grins round the paramedic trying to stop her actually dying. Still got it, and not dead. Yet. The story telling her. 

She lets it slide.

.....................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I’m still posting, despite the nightmare of work, commute, being unwell (again), and, well, all the other things that demand attention. 
> 
> I’m still infected. 
> 
> Feverish.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annual writing hiatus over...
> 
> Welcome back folks... approximately normal service resuming... mind the gap, stand clear of the doors...

Jimmy glances at Prurnell and honest to god demurs.

“I’m off the clock at five.”

She frowns.

“It’s simple enough. Surely.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Then I’m out of here.”

She nods and disappears from the room. Jimmy doesn’t look at Brian or Sean and simply gets back to dusting the revolver found in Dr Du Maurier’s home.

“She’s not denying it’s hers. Just..”

Brian trails off. He glances between Jimmy and Sean.

“Do you think Freddie is gonna make it?”

Jimmy snorts but it’s Sean who answers.

“You had a thing for a bit, didn’t you?”

It’s not really an accusation, just a comment, but Brian sighs,

“It didn’t end well. I misread her interest.”

Jimmy makes a noise that might be another kind of snort. Brian looks at him.

“Thanks for that.”

“You going to go visit her?”

Brian doesn’t exactly make a face but he looks uncomfortable.

“She’ll be sedated. The surgery was rough.”

Sean grunts an acknowledgment. 

“Not Dr Du Maurier though?”

Brian shrugs.

“Doesn’t seem her speed somehow. You know. She never shot Lecter did she? Here or in Europe? Or Will.”

Jimmy turns away from the laptop he’s got linked up to the scanning microscope, just to look at them both.

“You think she knows what’s happened to them?”

“I think there’s a chance she knows where they are.”

“Why’s she here then, why’d she come back?”

He and Brian look steadily at one another.

“There must be something here for her. Something she needs. Or wants. I can’t believe she’d planned on staying. Though of course...”

He trails off and Sean picks it up.

“You think she was getting out again? Running? From them not towards here?”

“I think she was doing what she’s always done, stepped up to the edge and then shied away from it. Fancied a look into the abyss but can’t stand it when the abyss looks back into her.”

“Who amongst us can Brian?”

It’s so far away from their usual banter and humour that they look slightly sick with themselves.

“She asked for Jack.”

Brian looks up at Sean.

“See what I mean? Just a repeating pattern. Must have been a shock.”

“It means she’s been out of touch of the press if she didn’t know what the deal was.”

“Yeah? Yeah. I wonder if it would have made a difference if she had known.” He sighs. “Jim? What you got? Anything in the database?”

“It’s running. You know how the next bit goes. Endless waiting, hoping for something.”

“Sure. Yeah. Something.”

...................................

 

Will Snr thinks hard about whether the visit to the church warrants a tie or jacket. He can do both, if he has to. In the end he opts for both, just in case.

When he leaves the trailer park he’s followed for about forty minutes by an SUV with tinted windows. When it peals off he doesn’t spot the replacement vehicle trailing after him but he’s pretty sure there is one. Well good luck to them. He’s just got a mind to some comfort and peace. He’s going to church for a little fellowship if anyone cares to ask. No shame in that, seeking a little solace over his lost boy.

Though he wonders what he’ll find there.

On his route to the church he takes a small detour to a postal office and puts a couple of packets in the mail. One to a friend, someone who’ll hang on to it, or burn it, or something, give it up if asked or told. And the other to the lawyer. When he comes out of the building there’s an old grey Pontiac pulled in a few spaces up from his truck. Inside are two guys just waiting, one of them drinking from what looks like a can of soda.

He doesn’t see them when he arrives at the church and its part filled car park but he reckons there’s someone still watching.

.....................................

Bedelia frowns slightly. She’s never quite got the measure of other professional women. Their concerns, their work life balance worries, their preoccupations with the glass ceiling, the sticky floor, their mundanity. She had almost no women clients when she was in practice. And has no regrets. Except. Except maybe it would have given her more insight here. Now. With Kade Prurnell.

In turn Kade Prurnell regards Bedelia Du Maurier with something akin to disdain. Perhaps not so surprising given the circumstances and the history. The atmosphere, she thinks, you could cut with a knife. And promptly winces at the thought. They both shift a little in their chairs and perhaps unconsciously mirroring each other they both fold their hands and rest them on the table top between them. Neither of them withdraw the movement. Neither of them cede any ground at all.

The moment is broken when Sean comes in and hovers just behind Kade Prurnell’s chair. He leans towards his boss when she looks up and around at him.

“Jimmy Price. Results.”

Prurnell looks at the file he’s holding and then unclamps her hands to take it from him.

She purses her lips as she reads. Then closes the file and sets it aside. She looks at Sean with something of a query and he slides into the seat beside her.

“Dr Du Maurier. Your gun. It does have your prints, but we’d expect that as it’s your firearm. But the latents have all been smudged. Probably by someone wearing gloves. So this bears out your story. My colleague might have a few questions.”

She doesn’t look at him but Sean leans a little forwards. He’s not met the doctor before though he’s head plenty about her and read her courtroom testimony. Careful, calculated, cautious, even with the prospect of Hannibal Lecter behind bars for a goodly time she had been circumspect. From what he had been able to read between the lines she had stuck rigidly to the boundaries of her testimony as it pertained to events inside the border of the US. Nothing in Florence or in Paris had even been mentioned in court, at least not when she had been on the stand. And the little she had covered and explained had been singularly unhelpful.

Well she was smart then he thinks. And perhaps more perceptive about those involved in the case in the round than almost anyone else. Because Hannibal Lecter is out, at large, somewhere in the world, and she has had the good sense to have not made an enemy of him in the past. Whether four years ago or much more recently.

Nevertheless he has to cut to the chase with her.

“Dr Du Maurier? You were surprised to find Freddie Lounds in your house?”

She nods. He carries on.

“She didn’t know you were coming back? There’d been no arrangement?”

“No arrangement had been made. I have had no contact at all with Ms Lounds. Her presence in my home was a surprise.”

“If Freddie wasn’t there for you, what was her visit about?”

“I can only speculate.”

Kade Prurnell interjects.

“Please do Dr Du Maurier, I’d be interested to hear your speculations.”

Bedelia eyes her.

“I have several. Someone may have contacted Ms Lounds purporting to be me. Why, I cannot say. Someone may have hoped to intercept me and happened on Ms Lounds. Ms Lounds may have thought there was some advantage to be gained from searching my house. What advantage, I cannot imagine. But something material.”

Sean leans forwards a little.

“I’ve been erring towards the second. Someone meant to intercept you and stumbled on Freddie Lounds. So the question might better be, who’s looking for you?”

Bedelia doesn’t look away but as he looks it’s as though she has withdrawn mentally from the room as she considers.

“If Hannibal is still alive it is not impossible he has a watch on the house. Even if he is dead he may still have agency in the world, someone at large, waiting. For what? Revenge? Restitution? I do not know. I withdrew as it became prudent for me to do so. I have not been home in 12 months. It was necessary to do so.”

She looks between the two federal staff.

“If it is clear that it was not I who fired the gun I am not sure why I am still here.”

Sean glances at his boss again.

“I appreciate your assistance Doctor. You just said it was necessary. To leave, or to return?”

“One more than the other, but both.”

Sean nods as though something important has been said. It hasn’t. At least not directly, but it’s enough he thinks.

It takes another forty minutes to get very little else from her and when she has finally been processed out he looks at his temporary boss.

“Tail?”

She nods.

“Someone wants to know where she is.”

He makes a face.

“Or where she was.”

...............................

Will watches as Chiyoh packs the last of her bags. It feels somehow final. Like an ending of a kind. He dips his head to look out of the window above the sink. It’s clear. A wash of blue. The green and purple of the hill.

“Where will you go now?”

She doesn’t answer at first. But he waits her out.

“Wherever I can be useful. There are still many things that require some personal attention.”

He nods. The lawyer probably. Maybe whoever helped get him out. He hasn’t enquired too closely about that just yet. Maybe his dad.

“Are you going to see my father? Did you before?”

She stills for a moment.

“Hannibal has been careful not to involve him in anything for which he could be charged. Your status in the eyes of the FBI was unclear when you were hospitalised. He did not come to visit you?”

“No. It seemed safer, better. I didn’t know how it would all work out. I’m not sure any of us did. Not really. Will you see him now?”

She inclines her head slightly.

“I could.”

He nods briefly.

“I’ll give you a number, or a way to contact him if that’s too direct? What do you think?”

“Something indirect would be better.”

Will raises both eyebrows, takes a slightly deeper breath,

“Do you think he’s under surveillance?”

“I would be very surprised if he were not. Though some of it may be more benign in its intention.”

“Yeah? All right. I’d like to think so but nothing’s been exactly benign over the last few years, everything’s had an edge of some kind, sharp, or cutting, intended to wound.”

She blinks at him.

“I think your understanding had changed Will Graham. I think you have.”

“I’ve had enough time to don’t you think?”

“It is rarely time that changes us. More often it is experience.”

She lets that bleed out between them. He thinks he hears hoofbeats outside. Though the deer don’t usually come so close to the buildings. But the sharp reek of a snort outside makes him go to the doorway to look. Just because he doesn’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

..................................

Jack Crawford is on his own in the icu at Johns Hopkins when he wakes up. Alone he thinks groggily. He’s destined only for loneliness. He lets himself wallow in that for a bit. Where has all his love gone, his ire, his righteousness? All he feels is tired and cold. The drugs he thinks, it’s just the meds, and what recovery feels like. Nothing more or less. 

He listens to the monitors, the steady thrum of machinery, the pulse and beat, and considers the extent to which everything is measuring out his life or doing the work of the different parts of his body that have long since had enough. 

He tries not to think about the case, or to worry at the edges of how long he’s been in here or what might have happened whilst he has been out of everything. Maybe Jimmy and Brian have finished up without him? Maybe there’s a new head of the BAU? Maybe Will Graham is found or Hannibal goddam Lecter is dead.

Maybes and happenstance and possibly and hopefully. All those good things. Doesn’t seem entirely likely. None of it really. Tells him something about the shape he’s in though. Tells him more about his preoccupations. The things he’s still carrying with him. Like a hermit crab, crawling, dragging a borrowed carapace around with him. Something he acquired along the way, a shield and shelter, and also a burdening weight.

The machinery keeps reminding him he’s alive to bear it some more. He used to joke he’d sleep when he was dead. He’s not sure that was ever particularly funny, especially in retrospect.

.......................................

 

Margot Verger Bloom watches from an upstairs window as Alana’s two visitors make their way out the front door to two waiting cars. The man, who bears an extraordinary resemblance to Jack Crawford, gets into the driving seat of one, the woman gets into the back of the other car. Someone waiting in the front for her. Two other guys, one of them draining a can if soda, upending it so she can’t see his face just the bottom of the van even from this acute angle.

As the two cars draw away the woman looks up through the back window straight at her. It’s a disquieting moment.

Margot draws back into the shadow of the room. Better to face it now.

She goes downstairs into what is Alana’s office. Alana is standing beside the window looking out across the grounds. She turns when she hears Margot.

“It’s still a beautiful, witchy looking place.”

“Do I want to know?”

Alana doesn’t really smile.

“Would you prefer not to?”

“It’s not entirely just a matter of preference is it? Do I need to know? In case it goes wrong?”

“Or right. All the indications are positive.”

Margot stares at her.

“Really? Since when.”

“Since Bedelia Du Maurier was released, Will Graham Snr mailed something, and Jack Crawford woke up.”

“You missed out the two Freddies.”

Alana is dismissive,

“She’s still in recovery. He’s still recovering.”

“What about Molly Foster?”

“Still in, albeit probably reluctantly. Went to see Freddie.”

“The lawyer?”

“I’m hoping distracted. By everything. Just enough.”

“Someone on the inside?”

Alana smiles.

“Sure you want to know?”

Margot doesn’t say anything so Alana continues.

“One of both Will’s and Hannibal’s problems was that they both too often thought in dichotomies. Rude/polite, them/us, friend/food.”

Margot winces as Alana continues.

“Stalk/lure. And that’s the crucial part really. Why not both? Extend a lure and stalk your quarry.”

Margot swallows.

“It’s not really sporting.”

Alana smiles faintly.

“No. It’s not.”

She pulls herself away from the window and picks up the phone resting on her desk and makes a brief call. A few moments later there’s a knock at the study door and one of the housekeeping staff pushes the door open on Alana’s word and shows in another visitor.

Margot looks at Alana and then shakes her head. Fuck.

Alana walks towards her guest and extends her hand.

“Dr Du Maurier. It’s a pleasure to see you. Will you have some tea?”

Bedelia smiles.  
.............................

 

Will Snr sits at the back of the church. He lets the invocations and petition wash over him. Just a soft imploring sussuration of sound. It seems to be some kind of prayer meeting rather than an actual service.

It’s warm enough in the church for him to be comfortable. There’s a decent level of heating on, maybe so that no one shivers and hopes for the close, maybe to keep them all with their hands raised just a little longer.

There’s no fanfare at the end, just the pastor smiling and shaking hands with a few folks as they leave. He passes the end of Will Snr’s pew on the way out and smiles a little but doesn’t stop. So he waits some more.

Up near the front, beside the altar someone beckons to him. A woman. Someone he doesn’t know, so he heads to the front. If this is the feds or the Verger Blooms he reckons they’d have been more direct so this is something else.

The woman nods and then speaks quietly,

“Mr Graham? Will you come with me?”

He follows her out through some kind of back room behind the main body of the church. And then down a short corridor and into an office of some sort. There are a few folks there, sitting on those moulded plastic chairs that are comfortable for about five minutes, then hurt your back or dig in under your thighs, and he smiles when he recognises one of them. Ok. So this is beginning to make a whole lot more sense now. And they must have been in on the whole thing to get Will out. Maybe to get Hannibal out too. Maybe.

The man doesn’t really look at him, but he does smile, all the while keeping his hands in his pockets. Not that Will Snr would make the mistake of trying to shake his hand.

“Hello Mr Graham. Ssssorry about the games. Sorry.”

Will Snr smiles back, a broad genuine smile that makes him look younger and so like his own lost boy.

“Hey. I understand the need. How you doing?”

 

.............................

Will and Hannibal walk quietly up the hillside. Both of them save their breath for the incline. It’s short but a little steep. The clear of the day has kept up and they’ve brought both a blanket and a flask of coffee.

When they settle down in the usual place they can see the deer on the edge of the scrub of wood, just grazing.

“The stag will be in rut soon. He’ll make the most extraordinary noise.”

Will smiles a little and rolls to look at Hannibal.

“Are we still staying? What about Bedelia?”

Hannibal smiles.

“Ahh yes. What would you have us do Will?”

Will turns his head back and watches the shift of the herd. He can hear them still, in his mind. Other things too, crowding in. Demanding attention.

“I told her back before the Dragon that she should watch out.”

“A promise?”

Will grunts

“Not exactly.”

“What else did you say to her?”

He smirks a little.

“I told her that meat was back on the menu.”

It started a laugh out of Hannibal.

“That’s my boy.”

Will watches him.

“So?”

“Apparently, at least according to the tabloids, she shot Freddie Lounds.”

Will sits up.

“What do you mean? When? How do you..”

Hannibal shrugs.

“Just a coded message. When she arrived back in Baltimore. The paramedics found her standing over Ms Lounds watching her bleed out.”

“Did she shoot her. It seems unlikely.”

“I doubt it too. Though Ms Lounds is in the ICU at Johns Hopkins. She survived surgery. Nasty things gut shots. She was lucky.”

“Oh. Nice. We’ve all got matching scars now.”

He doesn’t say it with much rancour but Hannibal looks up at him with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Will?”

“Still thinking about Bedelia. I think there’s more to this than you’ve told me. Going to share?”

Hannibal smiles.

“You are, as ever, ultimately perceptive.”

Will looks at him.

“We’ve all got patterns Hannibal. I’ve got the measure of yours now. More or less.”

Hannibal inclines his head.

“I believe that’s so. So. Somewhat over four years ago.. almost five..”

Will interrupts.

“Wait. Five years? When you both fucked off to Paris?”

“As you say. Paris.”

Will lies back down.

“Fuck. This had better be good Hannibal. Go on then, pour me another cup. Tell me the goddam story.”

He hands over his empty plastic cup from the lid of the thermos flask. Hannibal leans over and kisses him very briefly, and echoes words he said once before to Abel Gideon,

“Very well, let it be a story then.”

.................................

Molly sits carefully beside the hospital bed. Freddie Lounds is on a ventilator and the pain meds are, apparently, something else again. She takes out a news magazine, one of TattleCrime’s in-print rivals and finds the article she’d been looking for and begins reading it aloud. She thinks Freddie would approve. And also be mildly annoyed that she doesn’t get to cover her own shooting. Maybe she will later. Some kind of intimate retrospective?

A nurse comes in and smiles tightly at Molly but doesn’t say anything. Molly just looks back. Her days of easy smiles are long gone. She’s got no particular love of hospitals now. Nothing of the last few years has changed her already jaundiced view. Wally Snr’s passing hadn’t been an especially gentle one. And, after all, these are the people that lost Will.

For a moment she wonders about Jack Crawford. He’s here in this hospital somewhere. But she already feels like even this visit is stretching her affiliations. Still, she feels like she owes Freddie something. Even if this isn’t it. She sets to reading again. Thinks about Bedelia Du Maurier and whether she really did shoot Freddie. The tabloid is full of wild speculation and hypothesis, and just enough hyperbole that Molly thinks that if Bedelia wasn’t in custody she’d need some kind of protection. Moral panic is an easy thing to stir and the ‘bride of frankenstein’ is an easy target. 

What, she wonders comes next? She keeps thinking she’s almost done with the whole lot of them. But there’s always something reeling her back in. Fuck, she thinks, just, fuck. Enough with the goddam fishing metaphors. Please. Can’t it be enough.

.................................

In another part of the hospital Jimmy Price pushes open the door to a room guarded by a couple of US marshalls. 

“Jack.”

“Jimmy.”

Jimmy manages a small smile.

“In or out Jack?”

Jack smiles tiredly.

“Better out than in. That’s how it goes isn’t it?”

Jimmy nods, shakes his head a little. Sits at the side of the bed.

“Want me to tell you about it?”

“Like I said. Better out than in.”

“Sure it won’t kill you?”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive it either way.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“I think you said that once before Jim. Come on. Talk to me.”

Jimmy sighs.


	18. Chapter 18

“Hey don’t sit up. Hasn’t the bed got a button thing?”

Brian holds a hand out to Freddie, attempting to stop her levering herself up in the bed. She smiles a little wanly.

“Way ahead of you. Last time I tried to sit up I screamed the place down.”

“Don’t hold back Freddie. Let it all hang out.”

“And the rest. God it’s a real drag. You know that. You ever been shot?”

He shakes his head.

“Jimmy has. Accidental discharge by one of the guys in the lab. Just clipped him. Caused a hell of a fuss. He goddam fainted clean away. Couldn’t stand the sight of his own blood.”

“Fuck. Don’t make me laugh. Damn. I hadn’t heard that at all. Recent?”

“Nah. Ages ago. Back when.”

“Back when that was the worst thing any of you had to worry about. Friendly fire?”

Brian sighs.

“Something like that.” He pauses. “I don’t know if you heard, but we’re both getting out. Jimmy and me.”

Freddie’s eyes widen.

“I hadn’t heard that. That’s. What is that? I thinks that’s the sanest thing anyone in this goddam fuck up has done for years. Isn’t it? I think it might be. Damn. When?”

“Jim’s already finished. I’m counting the days.”

She considers him.

“And yet here you are. No hard feelings then.”

He looks a little surprised.

“It was a good while ago Freddie. Years.”

She smirks and flutters her eyelashes at him, and he laughs.

“Try that again when you don’t look like shit served up six ways short of Sunday.”

She laughs a little, and then winces again.

“Shit. Yeah. Ok. Good. So, what’s this in aid of. You gonna sit?”

He grabs one of the visitor chairs. Really are these things moulded so that you don’t stay long, don’t get all comfortable settled in beside some patient? He’s wondered.

“I’ve got some photos for you to look at. Possibles. For the woman?”

“So you believe me. It’s not Bedelia Du Maurier.”

“I do believe you. I did even before the prints came back. It’s her gun. But the latents were smudged. And you’ll be glad to hear she’s not pressing charges. For the b and e or the trespass. That’s the good news by the way.”

Freddie rolls her eyes.

“Yeah ok. Polite of her.”

“She might be charging you for the clean up on her furniture and carpeting though. The bill was sky high. You bled out a couple of pints. All over her nice flooring.”

“Yeah? Felt like it. Gravity and a gut shot. Terrible combination. Ok. Yeah. That might be fair enough. Expensive, I bet. She has some nice stuff. She still hanging around?”

“Glad to see your instinct for the main chance hasn’t deserted you.”

“Oh I’m still about the bottom line.”

“As long as you get to write it.”

She sighs.

“Yeah. If possible. For preference.” She pauses again. “God this hurts. Damn. So. Is she?”

Brian smiles tiredly. Still the same old, same old.

“For now. We’ve got nothing to hold her on. But we’re keeping an eye out.”

“Bait?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Not intentionally, no. Not ours anyway.”

“Too many fishermen in this pond Brian. Don’t you think. Too many lures. Who’s hunting who now do you think?”

Her instincts are still spot on he reckons.

“I think you should be concentrating on your recovery. You’re not dead Freddie. And in this ‘game’ that’s really something. If this is a long con, which it might be, it’s worth staying far enough ahead to stay out of range. Don’t you think?”

He puts a little emphasis on the ‘you’. And she gets it. And it’s kind of sweet that maybe she’s triggered some kind of small protective instinct in him. Not much maybe, but a little something. But then he’d been close to Beverly Katz, he’d seen up close and far too personal what Hannibal was capable of. And just because she’d amused the good, well, not good, the doctor once doesn’t mean she will do again. Has she done enough she wonders? In any direction? She certainly pissed Will Graham off, but then, he did also save her. Use her. Yeah. For sure. But save her too. Maybe he still is. If his dad has it right.

“Show me the photographs.”

She flips through them, but there’s nothing there. No one excites even the tiniest thread of recognition.

“Sorry. I don’t get it. I thought. I don’t know. I suppose I thought this was a culmination. But I’m just a bit part aren’t I?”

He smiles at her again as he takes back the tablet with the i.d. files on it.

“Honestly? It’s better to be a walk on and walk off role. And yeah. Some of us are definitely in the ‘other parts’ category.”

He looks faintly horrified at what he’s said, and she smirks a small twisted grimace.

“Worthy of Will Graham at his snarkiest. Or Hannibal the trademark Cannibal at his punniest. I might use that Brian. Give you some column inches.”

“Please don’t” he says faintly. “It’s not even especially funny.”

...............................

Will runs a finger along the edge of the sketchbook. He flips over a few pages. Some of the drawings are clearly in draft but others seem completed albeit unfinished. A delicate balance between the two he thinks. When is something over even if it’s not done. He’s not especially surprised to seem himself represented there, albeit in classical form or allegory.

One of them catches him. Achilles and Patroclus. He remembers a drawing like this once before. But this time he can see he is both figures. Part of him lamenting the loss of some other part of himself. Laying waste to all before him for that death. He wonders if he feels it as keenly as Hannibal has represented it here. It’s always the struggle that’s been the challenge. How hard it is when he is coming back to the closest approximation of self he has. And there has to be some kind of self, because he battles to regain that territory, that landscape of personhood he most recognises when he sees himself in the mirror. That self he sees when he looks at Hannibal.

He scrunches his shoulders some. It’s easy to fit in, if he makes the effort. Empathy is deceptive, can suggest someone has found their place, their way. When all they are doing is reflecting those around them, for good or ill. Even Hannibal. He knows he is more like Hannibal when they spend extended periods together. But. And here he thinks is the kicker. It works both ways. Hannibal is also more like him. Just as he had resisted knowing himself in the likeness of Hannibal’s deeds, perhaps that worked the other way too. Maybe Hannibal wasn’t just alone without him, maybe he couldn’t know himself quite as well as when he was with Will. Or let him be himself. Maybe the two things weren’t so far apart.

He turns to look at Hannibal when he comes into the room from an upper floor.

“Did we ever have sex? Back when I was ill? I can’t remember. It seems like we might have done.”

Hannibal pauses. It isn’t often that Will refers back to the time immediately before the BSHCI, an unspoken moratorium between them about the events that led up to Will’s semi death.

“It would have had no value if you were not in a position to give yourself fully. Knowingly.”

“That’s a no then?”

“It is a no. But I would say we shared a degree of intimacy even then.”

Will nods absently.

“I was confused about it.”

Hannibal spares him an enquiring eyebrow.

“Because? Because of Alana?”

“Because of what I felt about you. You eviscerated me long before you used a knife on me. I guess that was just you playing catch up.”

Hannibal makes a small face.

“I wanted you.”

Will rubs his fingers lightly over the face of the dead Patroclus.

“Yeah. I know. Did you get the version you wanted. Here. Now. In the end?”

“We killed a dragon together.”

“And that’s who you want? Whoever was there then.”

Hannibal turns from where he has been idly tracing a hand along a window ledge.

“You were there. Some part of you. Finally given free rein to simply exist.”

“All right. I understand that. I’m all of who I am. Not just the convenient parts. It’s all me. I just wish.. I just wish it was easier.”

“Is it so hard. Now at least?”

Will takes a deep breath and then drops into the lone armchair in the snuggest ‘corner’ of the kitchen.

“You’re right. It’s not. Now I’m not fighting it, myself. Or you. It is easier. I feel.. what do I feel. I feel. Wholer? Mended.” He laughs. “Like one of your goddam teacups come back together. Time did reverse. Isn’t that what you said? So maybe it has. Let’s imagine that. Say this is back before Garrett Jacob Hobbs and Abigail and Jack Crawford. Let’s imagine a do over.”

“Groundhog Day? That’s what it’s called? Yes?”

Will sighs. 

“Yeah. Groundhog Day. But with everything we know learnt from the point of a blade already understood. Between us. What then? What’s next?”

“More of this I hope.” Hannibal gestures between them. “Creating a new kind of art.”

“Without the bloodshed? What about your promises? I haven’t forgotten them Hannibal. Any of them.”

“What would you have me say? I keep my promises. Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No. No I know it’s who you are. I believe that. Just. I have promises to keep as well. To Molly. My dad. Maybe Peter too.”

Hannibal nods.

“And Bedelia?”

Will glances up at Hannibal and then keeps eye contact with him. Hannibal has always found it hard to resist when Will, of his own volition, gives him his eyes. Let’s him see.

“There’s a picture of me with my hand on Frederick Chilton’s shoulder. It marked him out. Dolarhyde saw it. She did the same to me.”

“A mark of Cain?”

“Victims. She always wants to stamp on anything she thinks of as weaker or smaller than her in some way. I always thought about the difference between how you used touch and how she did. You borrowed so many markers from her it was hard to untangle which was genuinely you and which was just a masquerade. That person suit? She helped you tailor it I think.”

“You think her therapy unhelpful?”

“For you? Colossally. She wanted you to decimate. Feed her appetite for carnage.”

“You think I was manipulated?”

“I think she tried. Anyway. Maybe that’s moot. What’s she doing now? Is there a ‘plan’? Something I don’t know about.”

He watches Hannibal’s face. The light from outside the window dims and then brightens. Will smiles a little. It’s easy to transpose simple natural elements onto our own emotions, and vice versa. It’s just a cloudy day. Nothing portentous.

“Going to share Hannibal. Or is it a surprise? Stories should go in both directions. Shouldn’t they? If they’re not finished.”

“Yes. That’s fair. As yet unfinished. So. Which would you prefer?”

Will chews at his bottom lip.

“Who’s getting et in this scenario.”

And Hannibal actually laughs.

............................

 

In the back room of the church Will Snr smiles at Peter Bernadone.

“So. I gotta say. I’m not too sure what the hell happened here.”

Peter looks right over his shoulder and Will Snr knows better than to try and catch his attention any closer. He watches as Peter twists his fingers together.

“They saved me. They did. They saved me. And it was a promise.”

“No more dark shadow?”

“No. No more. Gone from the world. Gone right out.”

“A judicial death? Sure. Ok. He was an utter shit. Will has no regrets about that I don’t think. He testified didn’t he?”

“He wished he shot him.”

Will Snr doesn’t answer for a bit.

“That’s fair. But he’d have done it for you if he had. And he wasn’t sure you should have to carry that.”

“Not just for me.”

Will Snr nods. If his boy had shot Ingram it would have been not just for Peter but because he empathised so much with Peter, was so far inside his head that he had to. But that far into Peter’s psyche, well, Will had known that Peter didn’t have that particular gift to share. A replay of what Ingram had done? Maybe. But not a clean bullet. Nothing as easy or as unremarkable as that. Hannibal had known that too. It might have been what finally tipped Will over into an acceptance of Hannibal. Even if he was so far inside Jack’s desperate need to catch the Ripper that he could only seesaw between those two stances. Never once able to stop, even as he was the fulcrum on which that balance tipped.

“So you kept a promise. To Will?”

“To both of them. Dr Lecter came to see me.”

He nods. That makes sense. Sure both he and Will kept in touch with Peter but he can see why Hannibal might too. For all his terrible wrath, he had a mind to lambs as well. The truly vulnerable. It was a weird pathology he shared with Freddie Lounds. Will Snr shakes himself a little.

“How long have you been planning?”

“Long time now. Long time. Helped me. Gave me friends. They couldn’t help him. Not with what he did. Wouldn’t. But they could help Mr Graham.”

“And Will could help Hannibal? Go to him?”

“Maybe. If he wanted. Maybe. After everything.”

He pauses and his look skates round the edges of Will Snr’s face.

“He could see him properly.”

“Yeah. That’s true. For both of them.” He stops for a bit and Peter doesn’t say anything, twitches a little, looks restless and then settles again. Not exactly stressed but maybe a bit anxious.

“You did great Peter. Really. How did you find a Graham Williams?”

Peter smiles and looks down and away into the corner of the room, points to a filing cabinet.

“The doctor found him. Found a place where he was, where I would fit.”

Will Snr blinks. Thinks about what Molly had told the Feds. All the work a conjuror does, all the planning, just for a piece of neat misdirection. Something that takes only a moment but around which the rest of the illusion is planned. Something that involves so much planning and manoeuvring that it hardly seems possible. Like the actual switch in the hospital. A nice neat sleight of hand before you even knew there is a trick being played. He wonders how many other feints and games are in play. Graham Williams? How many did Hannibal look for before he found one that would work?

“Neat. Real neat. Like an onion? You keep peeling a layer off and there’s another one below.”

Peter actually laughs.

“An onion. Yes. An onion.”

For a moment Will Snr can’t help thinking that Hannibal would make a terrible pun saying that’shallot. And Will would frown.

He smiles. Goddamit. Maybe it’s better not to know the rest. Just this. And to say thank you. Probably.

..............................

 

Molly looks at Freddie Lounds lying with her hair straggling across the pillow. She’s come to say goodbye she thinks. This time. For sure. Freddie’s mouth is slightly open and she might even be snoring a little. She snuffles in her sleep. Molly sits forwards in her seat, the same one Brian had sat in not so long ago and whispers.

“Freddie?”

She waits a beat and Freddie shifts some more, then opens her eyes.

“Molly Graham. Got anything for me?”

“I think we agreed it was back to Foster.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

Molly frowns.

“Apologetic is not a good look on you.”

Freddie smooths the sheet over her.

“None of this is. I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

“Come to say sorry.”

Freddie nods.

“You decided. This is your big goodbye isn’t it? Didn’t really expect it to be to me. You seen Jack Crawford again?”

“He’s sitting up. He’s got visitors. I’m not on the list. It’s better that way.”

She looks down into her lap.

“The lawyer offered protection. You know that? I’m taking him up on it. I think I have to.” She holds up a hand before she continues. “I can’t tell you where. No one knows. The Verger Blooms have a long reach.”

“You really think they’d use you?”

“I think they’d do whatever they had to to stay safe.”

“And you don’t blame them for that you just don’t want to get caught in the crossfire?” She moves her head a little as if to acknowledge a point. “Not again.”

“Yeah. Not again. Once was enough. I might have survived Hannibal Lecter’s pet project, but I think Alana Bloom is maybe more ruthless even than him.”

“She didn’t used to be.”

“No. Maybe not. But I don’t care about how she was. I can just see how she is now.”

“Apart from Hannibal she did ok out of this? You really think that?”

“She’s alive isn’t she? With more than she started with.”

“Financially. For sure. You mean the rest?”

“All of it.”

Freddie frowns.

“Listen. I don’t pretend to understand it all. But from what I know she offered her life for Will’s. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“I don’t know. It used to. I don’t think it does now. Not when this happens. Not with what she has in mind.”

“Ok. Goodbye Molly. I hope. God. I hope it’s better.”

“Yeah. Yeah, better would be good. Actually, better would be enough. I won’t say I’ll be in touch, or that it’s been a pleasure. But it’s been something Freddie.”

“Something? Ok. Thanks. I think.”

“Something is sometimes better than nothing.”

She stops at the door of the hospital room, nods at the guard there. Then turns back to look at Freddie, stranded on her narrow hospital bed, still on the edge of the board. Playing a lone hand. As ever.

“Only sometimes. Do you know who shot you Freddie? Did you ask Alana Verger-Bloom that? I would. Next time you see her.”

After Molly Foster is gone Freddie thinks about what she’s said. Of course she’s thought about it. But why? What use is she shot? Or dead. Her old journalism teacher used to tell his students to always ask ‘who gains?’ Who benefits from any action in any situation? Unless something is happenstance, just an accident, and boy was he big on saying that was almost never, that there was no such thing as a coincidence or it’s more benevolent sister serendipity. So. She got shot. Who profited from that?

She presses the call button. They won’t let her use her phone but someone has got to have paper and a pen in this environment. Surely.

.......................

Jack’s aunt looks down at her nephew. Listens to the soft whir of the monitors. He’s off almost everything except an I.V and a hook up that just checks how he’s doing. Keeps a weather eye out for any change.

It’s possible they could be mistaken for siblings right now. He looks smaller and somehow defeated. His wife gone. Friendships betrayed. She thinks he lost his way somehow. Got possessed by this big case. The one that got away. Got caught. And got away again. Will he cast his heart out upon the great white whale, harpoon it with a tender lance. She hopes it’s done, her strong Ahab brought low by a monster. The Doctors say he should recover, but she knows that there’s been talk about forced retirement. If he’s reluctant to go of his own volition.

She settles into the chair beside the bed and takes out some beads and bends her head in prayer. She’s no fool. It won’t be enough she knows that. But she has leaned to take comfort where it may be found. She’s not sure that Jack has learned that lesson yet. Maybe life keeps throwing something at you until you learn it. She wonders if that’s called acceptance. And he has so much anger still.

She sighs.

.........................

 

Two days after Bedelia’s visit Margot finally concedes.

“You think we can play this? Play her?”

Alana looks up from her desk.

“Come here. Go on. Come here.”

Margot slides round the side of the desk and stands above her. Alana pulls her, slightly reluctantly into her lap. She strokes her wife’s face with her forefinger. Margot smiles a little and nibbles at it when Alana runs a thumb over her bottom lip. She leans down and kisses her. Alana cups her chin in a hand and lets the kiss get deeper and more demanding. Margot pulls back.

“Do you? Why would you trust her?”

“I don’t. Not fully. We don’t have to.”

Margot frowns and Alana runs a finger down the crease between her eyes.

“I don’t like this. It’s reckless. Freddie Lounds was shot.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about Freddie?”

Margot looks annoyed for a moment.

“I don’t. Not especially. But how many lines have you got in play Alana?”

“Enough.”

“You hope.”

“I do.”

“She’s manipulative.”

Alana smiles and kisses Margot briefly and gently.

“I’m relying on it.”

.......................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I’m one of those writers who has no problem self promoting on social media. But I’m terrible at asking others to do so, or tagging people when I post, I feel too embarrassed about it. I’m told I’m an idiot about this. 
> 
> So. In the interests of being less of an idiot. If you’d be inclined to share, or reblog, or rec, I’d be delighted. 
> 
> I’ve been encouraged (ouch my arm hurts) to post this at the bottom of all my current WIPs. So, I’m trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a look at the wonderful art work by jazzy2may linked at the end of the story! What a lovely gift! And very evocative of the story...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART - The Lighthouse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917251) by [jazzy2may](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzy2may/pseuds/jazzy2may)




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